Yesterday's Fire
by Sweet Lu
Summary: A multi-chapter AU adventure on the plains of Wyoming. Follow Max Gentry as he struggles to find his place among the native tribes, outlaws, lawmen, ranchers and rustlers in the midst of a range war in the changing west. I will explore what Deeks and Kensi, the Atwoods and Callen and Sam might have been like if they had lived in the 1880s.
1. Chapter 1

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 1_

...

The air felt heavy and bereft of sound. His horse was hesitant and anxious, pawing the dewy grasses that lined the creek that remained shrouded in a lingering fog. The birds, so noisy just moments ago, had gone silent over the soft sound of the swiftly moving water. Shards of sunlight sent highlights through the trees, yet he remained on edge as his horse snorted and stamped. When he heard the solid pounding of hooves across the creek, he turned his horse to face the oncoming rider, his hand gripping the butt of the Colt pistol on his hip. He held his breath as he waited, willing the fog to part so he could see who he would be facing. The sound of the running horse grew louder, and he could just make out the darkly moving shape behind the curtain of grayness. A wild-eyed riderless pinto suddenly emerged from the now swirling fog and stumbled into the creek, its frightened squeal unnerving as it went down. His own horse reared and fought the reins, and he worked to steady her as the pinto struggled to right itself. Once on its feet it stood quivering, snorting out water, the two eagle feathers knotted high in its mane hanging limply along its glistening neck. A slick of blood streaked down its shoulder and he looked quickly back along the path and listened to hear if anyone else was following.

"Easy girl," he cautioned his mount as he slid out of the saddle and tied the reins to a willow branch.

He spoke softly to the dazed pinto as he waded into the cold stream, trying to calm the animal. Reaching out his hand, he took hold of the simple leather halter and coaxed the animal up onto the bank, his own horse shying away and blowing his breath out nervously. Running his hand down the horse's shoulder he could see no wound, knowing it meant its rider was the one who had suffered. He fingered the feathers, noting the color and design of the bindings, his mind coursing through what he knew of the local tribes.

"Who's your rider, beauty?" He quietly asked the horse. "Cheyenne? Arapaho maybe? He's not talkin' Sheila. Let's backtrack. See what we find."

Tying the pony's lead to his saddle, he mounted swiftly and swung his mare around, urging her across the creek and into the shimmering fog, leading the compliant pinto back along the track it had just come down. The path was still cloaked in slowly dissipating fog and followed the winding creek up into the mountains. He stopped several times to listen, all the while wondering what the hell he was doing and why. He had no reason to go looking for the rider, just a growing curiosity that usually got him into more trouble than normal. It was his horse that alerted him, halting unbidden at the sound of laughter up ahead. The morning sun had finally shredded the fog, and other than that one burst of laughter, the only sound was the cry of a highflying hawk and the rushing of the water as it cascaded around the boulders that littered the creek. He pulled his old wide brimmed black Stetson low over his eyes and urged his horse forward, his hand resting lightly on his pistol. As he rounded the bend in the rocky path he saw three men gathered around a defiant looking Indian they had tied to a pine tree. He was impressive looking in spite of his bruised face, his long black hair hanging loose and his chest bare except for a small burnished pouch hanging on a long loop of rawhide. Blood soaked the buckskin on his left leg, but he was still struggling against the ropes that held him.

"Havin' a little fun before breakfast boys?" He called out easily as he slipped his gun free of its holster.

"Who the hell are you?" The skinny one asked as he gripped the Indian's throat.

"Found your prisoner's horse," he said as he rested the Colt across his saddle horn. "You fixin' to kill 'im?"

"What the fuck do you care?"

A husky man wearing a badly stained vest over a blue shirt reached for a rifle so he raised his gun and shook his head. "I wouldn't do that."

"This ain't none a your concern, mister," the third man said as he took a step toward him and pushed his short coat behind the holster on his hip. "You don't want to mess with us."

"What he do to you?" He asked in return.

"He's a goddamn Indian," the skinny one said as if it were a valid reason for their violence.

"So you just shot him off his horse for being born an Indian?"

"Only good one's a dead one," the man with his hand on his gun said with an arrogant sneer.

"Cut 'im loose," he replied coldly, his anger giving a sharp edge to his voice.

The three men looked at one another, seemingly bewildered by what he'd said. He saw them tense and waited quietly for them to act, knowing they were stupid enough to try it. The front man barely got his gun out of the holster before a bullet entered his throat and the one fumbling for the rifle had a look of sudden fear before his second bullet caught him in the chest. The skinny one managed to get a shot off, but it went wide and he cried out as two bullets ripped into his abdomen. The gunfire was still echoing down the gully as he climbed down off his mare to check the bodies. He took the rifle. It was the latest Winchester repeater and not one he could afford to buy. Then he turned to the man tied to the tree. The Indian was watching him, his expression bold with not a hint of surrender in his eyes. His muscles flexed as he tried to stand up straighter and his nostrils flared at the effort, but he didn't cry out from the pain he must be feeling, which was impressive.

"You understand?" He asked him as he pulled a knife from his belt.

The Indian nodded quickly and then closed his eyes and began a soft haunting chant, his face raised to the sky.

"I'm not gonna kill you," he said as he stepped behind him and cut him free.

The chanting stopped and the Indian stumbled away from the tree, fighting to stay on his feet, but losing the battle and falling backwards, landing hard on his backside.

"Now that was funny."

"Why you free me?"

"You speak English?" He was surprised. "Not many Cheyenne do."

"I am Arapaho," pride and some arrogance apparent in his tone.

"Sorry. Didn't mean nothin'," he offered a hand to help him up, but the Indian refused. "Need a hand gettin' on your horse?"

The man snorted out a disdainful laugh and struggled to his feet, glaring at him as he hobbled toward the pinto. The horse stretched its nose out toward him and nickered softly and then stepped closer. The brave leaned into its neck to rest, and then untied the animal and attempted to leap onto its back, but didn't quite make it. He uttered a soft groan before he passed out and slid silently to the ground.

"That is one stubborn Indian, Sheila," he commented, bending down to undo one of the dead men's bandanas.

He managed to drag the unconscious man over to a downed pine, muttering curses and complaints about how heavy he was. He propped him up against the trunk and then kneeled to examine the bullet hole in his upper thigh. The bullet had gone all the way through, so he tied the bandana as tightly as he could over the wound, hearing a soft grunt as he finished. He went back for his bedroll, shaking off some of the leaves that still clung to it and draped it over the still form of the Arapaho. He spent the next half hour going through the dead guys' belongings and unsaddling their horses. They had a few dollars on them, which he left, but he found some nice beef jerky in one saddlebag, which he appreciated, chewing on it as he dragged the dead bodies off into the trees. When he came out, he roped their three horses together and tied them to the tail of the pinto, before turning his attention back to the large Arapaho who was beginning to stir.

The three men he'd killed didn't look like local ranch hands, their guns were too expensive, and their horses wore brands he recognized from a couple of ranches down in Texas. He'd heard some of the wealthy ranchers in the area were looking for gunman to help stop rustlers, which was one of the reasons he was in the area. If these three had been hired guns, they weren't very good. Being slow will get you killed every time. Too bad they learned the hard way, although he held no sympathy for them, knowing what they probably intended to do to the Arapaho now staring at him.

"Want that help now?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.

The man threw the blanket off and looked down at the bandana tied around his leg and then back up, his face softening with surprise and a bit of curiosity.

"Found this knife on the skinny one," he told him as he held it out to him. "Figure it's yours."

"What they call you?" The Indian asked.

"Lots a things. None too complimentary," he said cockily.

The Arapaho looked confused before asking again as if he thought he didn't understand or was stupid, he couldn't decide which.

"Call me Max," he finally just replied. "That's who I am right now, not that you'd know what the hell I'm talkin' about."

"Beecét."

"That your name?"

He nodded and held the palm of his hand out flat toward him with his fingers spread wide and then pointed at the sky and back at his hand, saying a string of words in Arapaho he didn't understand.

"What does it mean?"

"Hand. Five stars," he nodded firmly and struck his chest with his fist.

"Okay. Good talk," he said with a soft smile, the man nodding in return. "Who taught you English?"

"Grandfather say to learn," he responded. "To know what white man and their soldiers say."

"I don't envy you those conversations," he said sadly. "Met a few bastards in the army that lied for a livin'."

"You soldier?" Tightening his grip on the knife as he asked.

"Nah. Wrangled some horses for the cavalry down in Texas once," he answered. "And I do mean one time. Not my favorite experience."

Hand, or whatever his name was, nodded, but he could tell the pain and blood loss was wearing on him so he held out his hand to help him up.

"You ready to try getting back up on that little pinto of yours?" He asked. "You can take the three horses with you. Figured it might make up for what those bastards did to you."

"They have brand?"

"Yeah, but not from around here," he said.

"I will show Grandfather," he said firmly as he struggled to get up by himself. "He will decide."

Max grabbed his elbow and pulled him to his feet, steadying him as he limped heavily to the pinto. He could feel him shaking slightly and his skin was hot to the touch. The man accepted his hand up and that alone made him certain he wouldn't make it too far on his own. The Arapaho had a lot of pride, so accepting any help signaled he wasn't doing as well as he pretended. The man nodded at him and then turned the pinto back down the trail, the three horses docilely trailing behind.

He had planned to follow Owl Creek down into the ranch lands, so when he saw the Arapaho cut off onto a scruffy track that led straight into the Wind River Reservation he pulled Sheila to a halt and watched for awhile. Why he felt a connection to the tough Arapaho he couldn't have explained to anyone, but he'd admired his refusal to let those men intimidate him even while outnumbered and tied up. He would have resisted until the end came and he respected him for that. He'd always hated bullies and those three had paid the price. He was about to turn away, when he saw the Indian slump over the pinto's neck and the horse instinctively halted.

"Well shit, Sheila," he said. "Looks like we're not done yet. Dammit to hell. I hope I don't get scalped when we get him home. I like my hair."

He kicked her into a trot and caught up to the swaying Indian as he struggled to stay on the pinto's bare back.

"You don't look so good, Hand. Want me to tie you on or you want to ride Sheila here?" He asked. "Little easier to stay put when you got something to hold onto."

His comment was greeted by a string of words he didn't understand, but he was guessing they were Arapaho swear words if his facial expression was any indication. He did slide off the pinto though and with some extra effort he managed to help him mount Sheila.

"You been eatin' too much buffalo, brother," Max said as he leaped onto the bare back of the pinto.

"No buffalo for long time," Hand whispered.

"Think you can stay on?" He asked, deciding not to comment on the history lesson.

"I am Arapaho," he grunted.

"That didn't help you stay on before," Max said with a smart-ass grin.

"You big son of a bitch."

"You did learn English," he quipped, laughing deeply. "I'm startin' to like you, Hand Full of Stars or clouds or whatever the hell your name means."

The big Arapaho shook his head at that, but Max heard a small huffing laugh as they started on their way again. It was hard going through the rocky foothills as they dropped deeper into Indian lands, but the wounded man stayed in the saddle, even though he was barely conscious. Coming around the edge of a bluff, Max could smell smoke in the air and he pulled the pinto to a stop. He could just make out a small encampment on a high plateau, the tipis strung out along a low ridge above a meandering creek. The sound of barking dogs had him thinking he should probably just dump the Indian and get the hell away, but he liked to see things through and wasn't known for being all that bright when he got a notion in his head. Besides, if nobody found him he'd eventually bleed to death, making everything he'd done pointless.

"Wake up, Hand. You're home," he said as he urged the pony forward. "At least I hope somebody knows you here. Be just my luck if they didn't."

A grunt was all he got in response, so he cussed and tugged on Sheila's reins and headed down toward the oncoming inhabitants. Quite a crowd began to gather as he approached, and he kept his arms wide and away from his weapons. The barking dogs surrounded them, nipping at the horses and causing Sheila to dance away, endangering the Indian's seat in the saddle. He spoke softly to the mare and slowed, reaching out to hold the wounded man in place, so he didn't see who hit him, but it sure as hell hurt and definitely pissed him off.

"Fuck off," he shouted as many hands reached for him, trying to drag him off the pony.

The surrounding crowd was shouting now, and someone grabbed at the pinto's halter but the pony shied and reared away, unseating him and dumping him unceremoniously onto the ground. Fists pummeled him and he lost track of how many times he was kicked, cursing loudly as he tried to explain, but mostly regretting his decision to come this far for someone he didn't even know. All of it stopped suddenly, and he groaned in relief, choking on the dust that now coated him, finally looking up as the men and women parted for an old man. The elaborate quillwork on his buckskins and the many eagle feathers tied in his gray hair marked him as either a chief or maybe a medicine man. The only trade item he was wearing was a bright red neckerchief knotted close to his throat.

He managed to get up on his hands and knees before several men yanked him to his feet. An old woman stepped in front of him and hit him hard in the chest with what looked like part of a deer antler, and he stumbled, collapsing back into the dirt. The old man chastised her with words he didn't understand and she backed away, but continued to yell at him. He managed to see them none too gently dragging Hand toward the old man, dropping him at his feet. The wounded man groaned as the old man knelt down next to him and gently brushed his long hair away from his face. He said something softly to him and then took a cup from one of the women and lifted his head and pressed it to his lips, the water cascading down his chin, but reviving him. The old man seemed to be asking questions in the soft, tonal sounds of his language, pointing over at him as he did, and Hand looked over and shook his head and struggled to sit up. He then began angrily yelling at the men who had beat him, and they backed away, one even picking up his battered hat and placing it back on his head. Several helped him to his feet and began pounding him on the back and laughing.

"Your people have a weird sense of humor," he managed to say as he slapped the dust from his clothes.

"Your face bleeds," Hand said as the old man moved toward him, speaking softly as he stood resolutely in front of him. "Grandfather thanks you for my life. He invites you to stay."

"Think I should go, brother," he coughed out. "The rest of your friends don't seem too friendly, especially that old crazy woman with the antler. She scares the crap outa me."

Hand laughed, telling the others what he'd said and their laughter was followed by a hardy slap on the back that knocked him off balance. He steadied himself against Sheila, and turned to crawl up in the saddle, but was pulled down and pushed toward the collection of tipis.

"Don't take no for an answer then," he muttered as a group of little boys skipped along in front of the procession, touching him and shouting with pride when they did.

The smell of roasting meat made his stomach growl loudly, having not eaten since early yesterday except for the two pieces of beef jerky he'd taken from the dead guys. The man next to him called him something that had all of them laughing again, and he winced as he was roughly clapped on the shoulder. He was shoved inside a large tipi and pulled to the side as Hand was helped in and settled on a large buffalo robe laid across a raised platform. A gray haired woman untied the bloody bandana and then a couple of women began stripping off his buckskin pants. He was barely conscious now as his grandfather sat down next to him and put his hand on his forehead, his brow creasing in worry.

"He's got a pretty good fever going," Max said as if he would understand.

The old Indian ignored him and he was pulled over to the side of the large tipi by a young woman with long black pigtails wrapped in red trade cloth, and dressed simply in a buckskin dress that fell from her shoulders to just below her knees. A strip of blue and white quillwork ran along her shoulders and the edges of her sleeves, the yoke sprinkled with tiny tin cones hanging at the end of short strings of buckskin. She wore leggings decorated with painted crosses and simple moccasins. She was beautiful, her dark skin smooth but for a long, thin scar along her chin, which she hastily covered with her hand when she saw him looking at her. She scolded him and pointed, indicating he should sit down, which he was happy to do since he wasn't feeling all that great after all the kicks and punches he'd absorbed.

"You got any water?" He asked, hoping she understood. "Mouth's full of dust."

She suddenly giggled as one of the older women whispered in her ear. Another woman came up behind him and began to finger the long blond strands of his hair while she kept up a running monologue that had the other two women giggling behind their hands. Things got interesting when they proceeded to try and undress him. He tried to push them away, hoping to free himself from their groping hands, but they were stronger than they looked, slapping his hands away and easily holding him down so it was starting to become a losing battle. His hat was taken and while two pulled on his jacket the girl began unbuttoning the black vest he had gotten up in Butte right before he was run out of town by the Earp brothers. He'd just gotten the shit beat out of him, but he should have been able to keep four women from divesting him of the only clothes he owned. The beautiful girl pressed a finger over his lips and he quit cussing and stilled as she began to unbutton his dust-covered shirt. He watched her face as she worked, smiling at her lighthearted giggle when the other women pulled the shirt and vest off his shoulders, leaving him with only his dark blue neckerchief and black pants. He didn't remember them pulling off his boots, but his socks soon followed.

"Yeah, no...you're not takin' my pants," he protested loudly, remembering he'd left his cotton drawers in Butte when he'd made his escape.

Resisting a little more vehemently, they simply laughed and started to unbuckle his gun belt.

He grabbed the Colt pistol from the holster and everyone stopped and became completely silent. The old man turned to look at him and his face turned dark and stony as he spoke quietly to the women, who hurriedly backed away. He wasn't pointing the six-shooter at anyone, but the old Indian stood and stalked towards him, his face fierce. Max laid the weapon down on the ground and raised both hands to show he didn't want to hurt anyone, but the old man took two quick strides and backhanded him with his fist, knocking him onto his back.

"You insulted him," Hand said. "He is my grandfather. This is his home. The three women are his daughters. The girl is his granddaughter. He welcomed you."

"I meant no harm, brother," Max replied as he felt the tender new bruise on the side of his head as he lay on his back. "I don't shoot beautiful women."

"You shoot ugly ones?" He asked seriously.

"No man. I only shoot men tryin' to kill me," he said wearily. "Or bastards like the three that shot you."

Hand quickly translated and the women started to shyly smile again.

"Your grandfather is a tough old man," Max said quietly, propping himself up on one elbow. "What's his name?"

"He is called Little Shield," Hand said softly. "He fought the white soldiers with Red Cloud. He was angry. His wife was killed when soldiers raided a village on the Tongue River. He is peace chief now."

"I just didn't want them to take my pants," he explained.

"They will not hurt you, Wox-Wonòt," he said with a laugh.

"What did you call me?"

"The people call you Wox-Wonòt," he replied. "Means Bear in the Belly. Your belly growls with hunger."

"No argument about being hungry," he said as he laid back on the buffalo robe, giving up as the women began pulling at his pants. "Why do they want to get me naked?"

"To put medicine where the men kicked you," he explained, his voice growing weaker as he spoke.

"Shouldn't they be helping you? You're the one with the hole in his leg," Max wondered.

"I help," Little Shield said loudly, glaring down at him.

"Good to know," Max raised his hands to show he'd give the old man no argument.

He watched the old Indian as the women began to rub some foul smelling crap over the darkening bruises on his ribs and thighs, getting a few giggles whenever he reacted to their touch. Their hands were gentle, especially the young one, who remained quite serious as she worked to clean the blood from a couple of cuts on his face. The two older women stopped at one point and began a conversation that included gestures toward his privates, which he quickly covered with both hands, making the women laugh.

"I'd a known if I was kicked there," he said as he scooted away from them. "What the hell are they sayin', Hand?"

"He sleeps," Little Shield replied softly.

"Is he alright?" He asked as he rose up to look over at the wounded man.

The old man tenderly tucked the buffalo robe around the body of his grandson and patted his chest gently. When he got up and came his way, Max scooted as far back as the women would allow. He didn't need any more bruises and he pulled at the robe to try and cover himself, embarrassed and feeling vulnerable in front of the old warrior.

"You first white man young girl see," he said as he lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the ground in front of him. "If soldiers come, I hide her."

"Why?"

The old man just stared at him, until he realized what the man was afraid would happen if he allowed her around the men he still considered enemies.

"I'm a white man," he said. "Why do you let me stay?"

"My son is dead. Killed by whites," he answered. "Beecét is my grandson. You fight for him. Bring him home to me."

"Those three bastards woulda killed him," he conceded.

"Why you stop them?" Little Shield asked, his weathered face openly curious.

He had no idea what to say or how to explain why he did what he did because he didn't know himself. The women had moved away and it was just him and this old Indian warrior who he was pretty sure held his life in his hands. He wanted to be truthful, but what could he tell him? It just happened cause he was looking for trouble as usual, or because the three men reminded him of his childhood? He couldn't tell him he'd been pissed off ever since he'd been chased out of Butte in the Montana Territory because he'd slept with the wrong woman. He'd been looking for a fight ever since and so maybe his grandson had just been the excuse he needed, although there was something about the tough Arapaho that had gotten to him. He'd simply reacted to the injustice of it all. He hadn't thought deeply about what was happening. He'd seen plenty of bastards do much worse than what he'd come upon. He had no illusions about the evil some men got up to in the West. The place was peppered with cheats, hard cases and deadbeats of every size and shape, from places he'd been to and from places he'd never set foot in, some from countries he'd only read about. The biggest sonsabitches were usually the men he ended up working for, who for whatever reason, thought they owned the place. You take the measure of a man real quick out here or you end up dead. You'd be smart not to trust anyone, and if someone looks to be a threat, you be sure to shoot first. That's how you survive. And if he was one thing at all, it was a survivor, just like the old Indian in front of him.

"Looked like he needed the help," was all he finally said.

The old man nodded and then began speaking softly, the music in the sound of the words almost a lullaby to him as his eyelids drooped. One of the women brought over a tiny wrapped bundle of what looked like sagebrush, the tips singed from fire. The smoke was pungent and the old warrior blew some of it into his face, stirring the lingering wisps with his cupped hand.

"I am hebesiibebe," he said solemnly. "You my neisie. You stay until you go."

"I don't understand," Max said, confused by the unknown words and the man's intent.

"He said he is your grandfather now," Hand said sleepily. "You grandson now, like me."

"Seriously? Well don't that beat the devil."

...

...


	2. Chapter 2

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 2_

...

It was the smell of woodsmoke that woke him and he sucked in his breath as he stretched and looked around, his sore ribs reminding him to go easy today. The air reeked of animal fat and unwashed bodies in the confined space of the tipi, but it was warm and he hadn't slept this well in weeks. It was early, the dull light barely allowing him to see that only one other person was awake. The young woman turned to look at him, her hair now loose and cascading over her bare shoulders. He eased himself up onto one elbow and watched her in the muted light as she combed her fingers through her hair. She gave him a tentative smile, and he was once again moved by her beauty, his body responding with a need he hadn't satisfied since he'd left Butte over two weeks ago. A red trade blanket pooled around her hips as she sat cross-legged on a buffalo robe, her long hair obscuring her breasts. He couldn't take his eyes off her, and she stared unabashed back at him before she rose and wrapped the blanket around herself. He saw flashes of her bare legs as she came toward him in the soft, shadowy light, her movements graceful and her dark eyes full of warmth. He expected her to pass him by, but she knelt in front of him instead, running her hand down the length of his arm as he sat up in front of her. He reached out and fingered a strand of her thick black hair, his breathing stilled as she did the same to his.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered.

Her reply was to pull his blanket away, leaving her hand resting on his bare thigh. A soft, shy smile followed and he swallowed hard at how close she was. He wanted her, but he also wanted to live, unsure how Hand and old Little Shield might take it if he were to give in to his natural instinct. She seemed to have no such qualms, brushing her thumb across his lips as she placed her other hand firmly on his chest and pushed him down onto the robe. The red blanket fell away as she leaned over him and he reached up to fondle her breast, making her smile.

"This isn't gonna get me killed is it?"

She snuggled down next to him and pulled the blanket over them both, the pungent scent of her warm body exciting him even more. She smelled of juniper and her lips tasted sweet, as if she had just eaten berries, and for all he knew she had. She remained quiet and still and he leaned back to look into her eyes. He saw a shadow of sadness there, and cupped her cheek with his hand and kissed her. He felt her warm tears on his hand and he rose up to look down at her. She wouldn't look back, and hastily got up and wrapped the blanket tightly around herself and said something in Arapaho, reaching down to run a hand along his cheek. Her sadness made her look older than her years and he wanted to comfort her, but she shook her head as if she understood his thought and moved silently away and out into the early morning.

"Her husband is dead," Hand's quiet statement causing him to start.

"How long?" He asked.

"Lost in winter snow," he replied. "Hunting. She is alone two seasons now."

"How long does she have to mourn?" He asked, looking toward the opening in the tipi.

"She will decide," he answered. "She like you. Don't hurt her. She is special to Grandfather."

"And you too, I'm guessin'," he said with a knowing grin. "What's her name?"

"Be' Niiéíhii."

"What's it mean?"

"Red Bird," he replied. "Some will not like if she chooses you."

"Nothing happened. She left," he told him as he pulled the blanket up over his chest. "Besides, I'll be leaving soon, so the line will be one man shy."

"Where will you go?"

"Lookin' to hire on with one of the ranches," he replied. "Heard there was some cattle rustlin' going on."

"Men steal cattle meant for my people," Hand said quietly. "It is why Grandfather moved us here. Arapaho men are hunters. No more buffalo. Now we must hunt the low mountains to feed our women and children."

"Doesn't the army protect the herds meant for your tribe?" He asked, sitting up when he heard the anger in Hand's voice.

"White man want all Indians dead," he replied sharply. "Don't care how. Starve or shoot dead."

"Yeah...seen some of that. Sounds like you have to," he said quietly. "I'll go if you want me to. You don't need another mouth to feed."

"You stay, Wox-Wonòt," The old man's voice floated calmly in the gray light. "We will not let the bear in your belly go hungry."

He laughed softly at the comment, but was humbled by the man's kindness and had no words to express what he felt so he said nothing. Closing his eyes, he lay listening to the sounds of the waking camp and the soft conversation between Hand and his grandfather. He was surprised that he felt no fear here among a people most whites called savages. They had been kind after finding out what he'd done for one of their own. He'd been given a seat close to the fire last night and fed roasted elk meat that had made his stomach growl loudly when he'd smelled it, causing the men to laugh and repeat the name they had given him. He had no family and usually preferred to keep to himself, his experience in this part of the country making him wary of trusting folks. He'd been sleeping in the open since Butte, and the ground had been hard and cold for the last two weeks, so a warm buffalo robe and a wool blanket were a welcome change.

He must have drifted back to sleep, because when he woke the tipi was empty. He was pleased that Hand was feeling well enough to be on his feet, and he threw the covers off and searched for his clothes. The soft sound of the flap closing over the tipi opening had him turning to see who had returned. The young woman named Red Bird was still wrapped in the red blanket, which seemed appropriate and she looked longingly at him before moving slowly towards him. He watched her determined approach, his clothes forgotten as the smell of juniper once again wafted through the air. When she stood at the end of his bedding she dropped her blanket and stood naked before him. Dropping to her knees, she sat back on her heels before reaching to touch his face and he swallowed hard as his body responded and he flushed with sudden want. He brushed her long black hair back behind her shoulder, sliding his fingers along her collarbone and down to the slight swell of her breast. He watched her face as he caressed her, her lips forming into a round circle as she sucked in her breath in anticipation. She whispered a few words in her own language and it was lyrical and very sexy, making him want her even more. He didn't rush, but as her hands moved up his crossed legs to his upper thighs, he had to fight the urge to take her to her back.

"You pretty," she said haltingly, making him laugh out loud.

"Well, that's a first," he said.

She appeared fascinated by his skin, running her fingers over his abdomen and then up to his chest, the tips of her fingers pressing against his nipples as her tongue sensuously flitted across her lower lip. Rising up to her knees she pulled his head to her breasts and he needed no more encouragement, his mouth closing over her dark nipples, groaning as she slid into his lap, her long legs encircling him. Her nails scratched into his skin as he eased her down onto her back, his mouth moving from one breast to the other, pressing her into the soft buffalo skin. He rose up to look into her eyes as he entered her, his hands tightening on her breasts as they moved together. She moaned and panted softly, bucking against him when she climaxed and he covered her open mouth with his as he came, the smell of juniper hanging in the air around them.

Rolling off onto his back, he stretched his arms above his head, smiling as he slowly came down. He listened to her breathing and propped himself up on one elbow to watch her. She lightly held her own breasts and it aroused him, but he let her be. She had her eyes closed, her tongue moving slowly over her lips as if she still tasted him. Longing to touch her, he laid his hand on her stomach and felt her quiver. She opened her eyes and looked at him, her tears overflowing even as she smiled.

"You loved him," he whispered.

Her brow furrowed, signaling that she didn't understand, but she covered his hand with hers and closed her eyes once again, her breathing slowing and becoming even as her body relaxed. He pulled the blankets up to cover them as the sounds of the camp washed over their stillness. She suddenly turned into him and he wrapped his arms around her as she settled into sleep, his own banished as he gently stroked her back.

He had never been intimate with an Indian woman, having only come in contact with a few around some of the trading posts and army forts. He'd heard course stories about them from drunken men in saloons or from troubled soldiers trying to drown their own guilt with whiskey for the sordid things they'd done after battle. He'd never understood a man's need to take a woman by force, but this part of the country was becoming filled with desperate men without morals who thought Indians less than human. He'd come up from Texas through Indian country and had wintered at a couple of army forts along the way. The majority of the soldiers were good-hearted men with a code of honor, but there were others who would brag of the horrible things they'd done as if those listening agreed with their wickedness. He wasn't perfect by a long shot, but sinking to the level some men did, he wanted no part of. He'd tangled with a group of such men at Fort Sill, getting his butt thoroughly kicked before he'd managed to clear his Colt and shoot one who'd pulled a rifle on him. He didn't kill him, but he'd had to make a run for it, not wanting to spend any time inside one of those army jails. He'd been using his real name back then, but that had changed after a couple of other run ins with men who claimed to be the law, but who were just using the badge as a cover for their less than honorable activities. They would conveniently change from lawman to outlaw whenever it suited them, so he had moved even further north and had ended up here in the arms of one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, white or red.

When she woke, she gently kissed him and rose quickly and dressed in a deerskin dress trimmed with fringe. The top was red, which seemed to be her signature color, the top elaborately decorated with designs of flying birds done in intricate beadwork and ornamented with tiny bird feathers and trade shells. She looked stunning, and he wondered if she wasn't showing the other members of the band that she was no longer in mourning. What that meant for him he wasn't sure, but he was happy for her. When she left, it was with no backward glance for him.

"Guess I'm not as good as I thought I was," he said softly to himself with a cocky grin.

He eased himself to his knees and tugged on his chambray shirt and then his vest, leaving it unbuttoned, still flush from his morning exertions. He rose and stepped into his pants, and groaned with the effort it took to pull on his boots. Taking a deep breath, he waited for the aches and pains to pass, finally cinching his gun belt tightly around his waist. Not sure whether it might be considered rude or confrontational by these people, but there was no way he was walking around without his gun. He left his sack coat behind, but tied his bandana loosely around his neck, snugged his hat on and headed out to meet the day, hoping Hand was somewhere close by.

The tipi was on a slight rise that afforded a great view out over the spring fed stream that was edged with yellow wildflowers. Large thunderheads reared up over the expansive, barren plain below, the land stretching down toward the large cattle ranches he was headed for. The tipis were strung out along the creek, widely spaced and painted with a variety of designs and colors. Dogs and small children ran between them, their barks and laughter lively, making him smile and relax. Fires sent up a faint layer of smoke that drifted on the cool breeze, mingling with the tantalizing smell of food. He'd been surprised at how easily these people had shared their food with him, knowing that there wasn't much of it. He hadn't expected that kind of hospitality. Remembering the sack of coffee and small bag of brown sugar he had splurged on in Butte, his mouth watered at the thought and he went in search of Sheila and his saddlebags. The least he could do was share.

Most of the people he passed were women and a couple even smiled at him, but the majority ignored him as they worked. He was trailed by several children, one punching him solidly in the thigh and then dancing around in front of him practically crowing about what he had done. He looked to be about seven and wore only a breechcloth, his hair woven into untidy braids. He did his best to look tough, but Max noted a couple of dark bruises circling his upper arms and marking his back. The other children ignored him, and he could see that bothered the kid, but the boy clinched his jaw and sought to gain their attention once again. When he charged, Max easily sidestepped the boy, and he tripped and sprawled in the dust making the other boys laugh. When Max attempted to help him up, the kid slapped at his hand, his face dark with anger as he scrambled to his feet and ran, disappearing behind a tipi.

"His father did not teach him well," Hand said as he limped up behind him. "He has only his mother now and her brother."

"Is that who beats the boy?" Max questioned.

"His uncle, Two Moons is hard man. Boy won't listen to elders," he replied and then walked on. "He will learn."

"Or not," Max whispered under his breath.

The sound of whinnying horses interrupted unwanted memories, and he pushed them back in his mind as he caught up to the big Arapaho. Just below them a herd of multicolored horses milled around inside a rope enclosure and he quickly looked for Sheila. A pinto separated from the herd and trotted up to Hand who held out something to the animal, who took it eagerly and happily munched away as other ponies crowded in.

"Know where my mare is?" Max asked.

"Two Moons has her by his tipi," Hand said, quietly watching him.

"And why is that?"

"He has young stallion," he replied. "Wants to breed them."

"Yeah, no...that's not happening," Max said firmly. "Show me where my horse is, and I'll be on my way."

"You will have to take horse back," Hand said.

"I can do that," his anger growing, which Hand could easily see by the change in his expression.

"You could trade mare," Hand reasoned. "Two Moons has four good horses."

"Where's my horse, Hand?"

The big Arapaho nodded and turned to walk further down along the creek. Several of the braves began to follow and by the time they arrived at Two Moons' tipi they had gathered quite a group of onlookers. Sheila whinnied loudly when she saw him, stumbling against the hobbles and pulling at the rope that staked her to the ground.

"Easy girl," Max said quietly as the big mare pushed her head into his chest, snorting softly as if relieved.

He quickly knelt down to undo the hobbles around her front legs, but a rough hand slammed into his shoulder and he landed facedown in the dirt.

"She belong to me now," a deep voice stated loudly.

He usually tried to keep his anger under control. He'd learned long ago that when he gave it free rein, bad things happened, mostly to other people. There was something about this part of the country and the people who wanted to take it for themselves that made men wild and he was no different. If you were placid and easygoing, men would run roughshod over you without a second thought. You either fought for what was yours or you ended up with nothing. And there were plenty of men, red and white, who were determined to grab whatever they could with both hands, whether it was there's or not.

He'd learned to fight early in life. He'd had no choice and out here on the wide-open plains you had better fight or you might just end up dead. He had no friends, but he had Sheila and she was a good horse and a fine companion, and there was no way in hell that this Indian was taking her without a fight.

"I rode in on that mare and I'm ridin' out on her," he said softly as he got up.

He took one step and then bull rushed the man, driving his shoulder and elbow into his stomach and taking him to the ground. He hit him hard in the mouth before he could catch his breath and almost got in a second punch, but the man blocked it and kicked him over onto his back. Max could hear the men around them shouting as they fought, rolling over and over, each trying to gain the advantage. The Indian was all muscle, big and strong and quick, and he finally wrestled free, drawing a wicked-looking knife before tackling him into the creek. Max swallowed a mouthful of ice-cold water as he went under and he struggled to get his head up, but Two Moons whooped and slashed at him with the knife, slicing a cut across his upper left arm. Maddened by the searing pain, Max grabbed a rock from the creek bed and smashed it into the jaw of the celebrating warrior, knocking him senseless. He pushed the man away and he floated slowly downstream until a couple of men waded in and pulled him up on the bank. Max waded out, his shirtsleeve streaked with bright red blood. He pushed through the crowd of now silent Arapaho and stumbled to his knees beneath Sheila, undoing the hobbles and yanking the stake angrily from the ground. He was soaking wet and shivered in the crisp air of the early morning as he led Sheila away, surprised by the slaps on the back and the nods of respect he received. A young boy ran up and handed him his bedraggled hat, which he shoved down over his sopping wet hair, trying to calm his burning anger. It was obviously time to go, so he searched for his saddle and gear by the horse herd, trying to ignore the blood that was streaming down his arm, soaking his shirtsleeve.

"Come Bear," the old man's voice catching his attention. "Beecét will bring your saddle."

"Think I should be on my way," he replied sharply.

"The fight is finished," Little Shield said softly. "You should not hold on to the anger. Let it go. Two Moons knows you are not weak."

Max said nothing as he spotted his gear, lifting the saddle and blanket up with his good arm and swinging them up onto Sheila's back. Cinching the saddle proved a little difficult with the wound to his arm, but he persisted, grunting as the burning pain spiked whenever his muscle flexed. The bridle was easier and when he finished, Hand held out his saddlebags, a slight smile playing around his mouth.

"You have hard head, Bear," he said. "Stubborn. Like me."

"Don't like a horse thief much," he said as he tied the saddlebags down.

He reminded himself how kind they had been, and then remembered that some of these people had knocked him around quite a bit when he'd first arrived. Now one of them had tried to steal his horse, the only thing of real value he owned.

"You take rifle from men who shot me," Hand reasoned.

"They were dead. Didn't need it," he said as he rummaged through his meager belongings.

"Not yours."

"Sheila is," he snapped. "And I ain't dead."

He pulled out the bag of coffee and the precious sugar, turning to Little Shield and holding them out for him to take.

"Thanks for the hospitality and the meal," he said, realizing he really meant it. "I appreciate it."

The old Indian took them both, peering into one and then the other, smelling deeply of the coffee and then tasting the brown sugar, his eyes brightening at its sweetness. He began talking firmly to Hand, the soft language once again making an impression on Max, who climbed onto Sheila and prepared to leave. He patiently waited for the conversation between the two men to end so he could say a final goodbye, but as it grew lengthy, he decided to ride out and kicked Sheila forward. Hand reached out and grabbed the reins, pulling Sheila to a stop.

"Let go, friend," Max said coldly.

"Grandfather says you stay," he replied and began leading the horse toward his tipi.

Max tried to yank the reins away from him, but it took effort, his left arm now difficult to move. He spat out a stream of cuss words as he struggled to regain control of his own horse, but Little Shield grabbed his wounded arm and he hissed loudly and shut up.

"Grandfather is chief. You must listen," Hand said. "You bleed too much. Won't get far."

"I can take care of myself," he said as he pulled his gun and laid it across his bloody arm. "Now let go."

The face of the big Arapaho was the one he'd seen when he'd been tied to that pine tree. He was angry and defiant, standing to his full height with his fists held tightly in front of him, his body coiled as if ready to strike. The old warrior stepped away from him and spoke to his grandson and he could see Hand's expression change, and then they both turned and walked away, leaving him to do as he chose.

He let his breath out slowly and holstered his gun, his own anger dissipating as he turned his mare toward the low foothills above the camp. When he was off the reservation he would tend to his wound, but now he needed to get free of these people and the mixed emotions he was feeling. Entanglements with people only ended in disappointment and he'd had enough of that in his life. He was a loner and he liked it that way.

He hadn't always been that way. Once he had cared what people thought. Once it had mattered deeply that someone cared about him, but it had all ended badly and he had left his optimism behind and slipped toward the darker edge of his personality and become a loner. He relied on his toughness now, never letting anyone too close. He had come to rely on his anger as well. It had gotten him into some trouble, but it had also gotten him out of it on more than one occasion. He was working on controlling it, but today it had exploded. He didn't have much, but he was going to hold on to what he did have. He'd killed the last person who'd tried to steal his horse. The ambush hadn't worked out too well for the bastard who'd attacked him. It was the reason he was way the hell up here on the high plains. It was the reason he had changed his name, knowing he was being tracked. The man he'd killed had kin, and unfortunately that kin had been a Texas Ranger and was a well-known gunslinger. He probably would have been safer had he stayed on the reservation with Hand and his grandfather, but he didn't like people telling him what to do. He'd had enough of that as a child. He had run from that too.

His thoughts turned to Red Bird and it made him smile. He didn't regret that entanglement. She had been worth the detour and her memory would sustain him through the coming days on a cattle ranch devoid of women. He kicked Sheila into a trot and then into a loping stride, striking out across the stretch of sage covered meadow below Owl Creek. He intended to follow it down to the ranch lands south of the reservation, but first he needed to stop the bleeding from the cut on his arm. He cursed quietly to himself when he realized he'd left his coat behind, but there was no going back, so he'd just have to make do. It would be dark before he got down to the ranch he was headed for, so maybe he might see if he could pick up something to cover his bloody sleeve along the way. He didn't want to explain how he'd gotten cut. He didn't need the questions, he just needed a job and a place to sleep.

His arm was beginning to stiffen up by the time he wove through the willows and a few Cottonwoods and crossed the turbulent stream that marked the edge of the reservation. The bleeding had slowed, but he was suffering some dizziness from the loss of blood, so he slowed Sheila to a walk as he searched for a place to stop. Coming to a dead Cottonwood tree down across a small feeder stream, he eased himself out of the saddle and leaned heavily against Sheila as he rode out a wave of nausea and weakness he didn't like.

"I shoulda bought an ugly horse," he said softly as the big mare turned her head to nuzzle his chest. "If men keep trying to steal you, I may have to sell you off, big girl. Might make my life easier."

Sheila nickered and shook her head, making him laugh, which was followed by another wave of dizziness. He stumbled toward the fallen tree and grabbed onto one of the dead limbs and eased himself down to the ground, his back to the decaying trunk. He took off his hat, tousling his tangled mess of hair, and rested for a minute. When he thought he could stand it, he tugged at the top of his sleeve and held his breath as he ripped it down and free and then slid it off over the deep cut. He hissed out an angry curse as a searing pain shot down his arm and across his chest, leaving him shivering and angry again. He waited it out before pulling his bandana off and wetting it in the small trickling stream by his leg. It took some time to clean all the blood away, and he was grateful for the increasing heat, the cold water giving him a sudden chill. He hadn't realized how long and deep the cut was, and was concerned as it continued to bleed.

"This is all your fault, Sheila," he said to the horse who was calmly cropping grass, looking up when he said her name.

Taking a deep breath, he began wrapping his bandana around the open wound, tying it off as best he could. Scooting down until his head rested against the old tree, he closed his eyes and let the sun warm him, discounting his growing weakness and trying to ignore the pulsing pain. He pulled his wounded arm close to his body, and drifted toward sleep, even though he knew he should keep moving south.

The sound of Sheila snorting woke him. He was surprised by the change in the weather, the sky now filled with darkening thunderheads that were backing up against the mountains, cutting off the warmth of the sun. Sheila was nervous and that had him sitting up a little too quickly, causing his head to spin and had him reaching back to steady himself against the trunk of the old tree. When he heard a branch snap behind him, his response wasn't quick enough and a familiar knife was suddenly pressed to his throat as his head was yanked back against the fallen tree.

"Horse is mine," Two Moons growled, straddling the trunk next to him with a smug look on his face.

The man called out and the seven-year-old boy he'd had the run in with at the Indian camp stepped out from the willows along the creek. Max was very familiar with the look and demeanor of the boy. He was scared, but trying desperately to be brave. He had a black eye he hadn't had before and Max felt a growing rage inside.

"You just like beatin' on people, don't you asshole?" He said sadly. "The boy's your own kin."

The Indian ignored him and jerked his head at the boy to come. Speaking rapidly in Arapaho, he nodded toward the horse, but the boy didn't move, looking between him and his uncle. Two Moons shouted and Max saw the fear in the boy's eyes, but he moved to do what his uncle had ordered, which was to take Sheila. Hoping the Indian was distracted, he slowly moved his hand toward his gun, but Two Moons slammed his head back against the tree, stunning him. The Indian quickly took his gun, securing it in the waistband of his buckskins and then stood over him, his face a mask of arrogance and superiority. The man obviously didn't think he would do anything, and turned his attention to the boy as he led Sheila to him. Two Moons roughly shoved the boy aside, and when he whimpered, slapped him hard, sending him to the ground.

"Let the boy be, you bastard," Max yelled.

Sheila suddenly reared, pulling away from the man and giving Max the opening he needed. He charged, grabbing for the gun while hitting him solidly in the eye and landing on top of him, knocking the knife away, but leaving himself winded. Two Moons took advantage, his fingers clawing into the bandaged wound on his arm, and he cried out at the sudden flash of pain. As he struggled to get to his feet the Indian got his hand on the gun, pulling it free and striking him above the eye, leaving him dazed.

Warm blood seeped slowly down the side of his face as he lay panting on the ground, numbly watching the Indian get control of Sheila, who was stamping and bucking, her nostrils flaring as she fought the bit. The boy was suddenly next to him, helping him to his knees, and Two Moon saw and shouted at him, his mouth twisted in anger. He pointed the gun at them both and Max pushed the boy behind him where he stood gripping his shoulders and trembling.

"He's just a little boy," Max said, hardly breathing as he waited.

Sheila whinnied loudly and held her head high, her ears pricked in the direction of the creek, and the three turned to see Hand and Little Shield burst out of the willows on the far side and gallop across, water splashing out around their horses and the riders that followed. Hand slid off the pinto even before it stopped, holding a long handled tomahawk with a look of fury on his face as he took a stance in front of Max and the boy. Little Shield urged his big black horse directly into Two Moons' chest, forcing the man back as he berated him with harsh words, giving him no chance to reply. His arrogance disappeared, replaced by a sullen look as he angrily threw the gun in the dirt. He gave Max a haughty look, his eyes flashing at the men who surrounded him before stalking off and disappearing into the wind whipped willows by the creek.

"You come back now, Bear," Hand said firmly as he helped him to his feet. "Do not make grandfather more angry."

"Why'd you come after me?"

"Grandfather believe you come back on your own," he said. "I told him you not smart enough."

"You calling me stupid?" Max asked with a grin.

"Hohóókee," he replied, making everyone laugh and nod in agreement.

"And that would mean?"

"Crazy man."

"I like Bear in the Belly better," he said as he climbed up on Sheila.

"We will call you Crazy Bear," Little Shield said, patting him gently on the shoulder before turning his horse toward the creek.

Max looked down at the young boy who looked lost amongst the milling horses, and leaned down and offered him a hand up. The boy looked surprised, but took it and Max swung him up behind him and turned to follow the Arapaho back to camp.

...

...


	3. Chapter 3

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 3_

...

He frowned at the short laugh from Hand as he once again nearly tripped, the boy staying so close he was beginning to get irritated. The kid had refused to be separated from him when they'd gotten back to camp, and Max had taken pity on him and let him help with Sheila. He had even snuck into the tipi that first night, startling him when he had woken to find the boy watching him. He'd almost hit him before he'd realized who it was, finally yelling at him, still on edge from the day's confrontations. Little Shield had calmed things down and let the boy stay, and Max had felt badly about his reaction, seeing the same fear in his eyes as when Two Moons had yelled at him. It hadn't deterred the kid though. Now, he wouldn't leave him alone, always underfoot, and wanting to help so badly that he had become a joke to most of the older boys, who taunted him unmercifully. He took the rope the boy offered and saw the soft flash of a smile at the acknowledgement and a faint hint of pride as if he'd accomplished some great feat.

Max wasn't used to being shadowed, but he'd let him be, not wanting to scare the kid like he had that first night. The boy had disappeared this morning and he'd found himself looking for him as he'd helped Hand with the herd. He had finally asked his name, and Hand had smiled as he spewed out a long word that sounded like an entire sentence and left him shaking his head as he tried to make sense of it.

"Call him Sage," the big man finally said.

He didn't see him again until just after noon when the kid came up behind him and tapped his arm, making him jump.

"Dammit to hell, boy. Don't walk up behind a man like that," he said sharply. "You'll get yourself shot."

The boy looked quickly down at the ground, saying something softly as he handed him his hat, and then turned and ran off toward the creek.

"He went all the way back up to Owl Creek to get my hat?" Max said to Hand, surprised and stunned by the determination of the boy.

"You have been kind to him," Hand said. "He has no man to teach him now. Two Moons is gone. Took his sister back to their band. Boy not want to go. He is alone now."

"How will he survive?" Max asked, suddenly concerned about the wayward boy.

"Grandfather will watch out for him," he answered. "He is tough."

"He can't hunt, he's just a little kid. How's he gonna eat?" He asked.

"We will feed him, Bear. He will not go hungry."

"Can't some family take him in?"

"He does not have friends," Hand said sadly, and then turned back to lead his pinto out toward the hills. "Find him. He can go on hunt with us."

He found the boy sitting on the bank of the creek throwing stones as hard as he could at the gently moving water. He called out his name and Sage jumped to his feet, unable to hide the hurt in his eyes and the wariness that seemed to naturally clothe him. Max understood his response, having carried that same distrust of others for most of his life. The boy sparked too many memories and he had wanted nothing more than to have him disappear when they had returned to camp.

It did him no good to recall his own childhood, the bitterness he still carried always there just below the surface. He'd managed to get past it for a little while after he'd left home, hiding behind his mother's name and her brightness of spirit. He'd kept people at arms length, especially men, with a constant babble of funny stories, most of which were untrue. He'd always had a gift for storytelling, which his mother had encouraged, telling him the gift came from long ago Viking ancestors telling stories around the fire after a long day of raiding. It was his father who'd objected whenever he started one, which was usually when he was trying to distract the cruel, drunken bastard. Two Moons had reminded him of his father, just as the boy had reminded him of himself when he'd seen the turbulent fear in his dark eyes that day by the creek. Sage was free of the man who had brought out that fear, but he still carried it nonetheless, and Max knew how hard it was to let it go. The boy deserved to experience some happiness, and if he could bring him some he would, at least while he could.

"We're going huntin'," he said softly as the boy backed away. "You're welcome to come along. I can show you how to shoot my new rifle."

"No horse," he replied quietly, before he turned and started to walk away.

"Hand has three new horses," he called out even though he was unsure how much English the kid understood. "One's a sweet little chestnut gelding with four white feet and a blaze on his face. I think you could manage him, if you're not afraid to try."

"Not afraid," he snapped back, glowering as he turned to face him.

"Come on then," Max didn't even look at him as he headed back toward the herd. "Don't want 'em to get too big of a lead on us."

He knew Sage would follow him and wondered if he was giving the boy nothing but false hope. He would be leaving soon and the boy would have to find someone else to look up to, although he had no idea why the kid had latched onto him. He couldn't take him where he was going and didn't really want to, although he felt a connection to the kid and somewhat responsible for his uncle leaving and taking his mother with him.

A deep sadness suddenly stirred within him as he remembered the loss of his own mother. He'd been fourteen when she died, beaten so badly by his father she never woke up. He still missed her, but her memory always brought mixed emotions that left him silent and full of rage. At least Sage's mother was still alive, although she had abandoned him. That seemed almost worse than death, because she chose to leave him. His own mother had urged him to run a few times, to leave her there in Bodie and strike out on his own even though he was small for his age. He might have if he hadn't been so afraid for her. She'd led a hard life, following her husband across the country to the goldfields of California when she was barely out of her teens. He had dragged her from one dirty little tent city to another, convinced he would find his fortune in the next creek and then the next, growing angrier the more he failed. He'd finally stopped in Bodie, a ramshackle little mining town in the high desert on the backside of the Sierra in what his mother always called the butt of California. It's where he'd been born, which had always seemed appropriate considering the shitty childhood he'd had. He had inherited her sense of humor, but his father never appreciated the smart remarks he came up with, smacking him whenever he made light of anything. His father saw no joy in the world and was determined to make sure no one else did either, especially him and his mother.

His memories kept him silent as he saddled Sheila and then cut the chestnut gelding from the herd. The boy was trying very hard not to show too much excitement, but when Max got a halter on the small horse, he was unable to keep from smiling widely. Little Shield came over and handed him a couple of turkey feathers and he quickly tied them in the horse's mane and then listened quietly to the chief's instructions, as the old man's wrinkled hand slowly patted his shoulder. The older boys who had taunted him earlier watched silently, their faces serious and envious. The old chief made it a point to shoot them a warning look, and that left Max with an odd feeling of longing.

Grasping a handful of the horse's thick red mane, Sage leaped easily onto the young gelding's bare back with a look of pure joy on his face. It was pleasing to see, and Max smiled as he led the way up and out of the camp. His eyes turned toward the far peaks of the mountains shrouded in low clouds that hinted of rain, and he drew his light jacket tighter as he searched for signs of Hand and his small band of hunters. The boy rode easily beside him, and then whooped as he pointed toward the tree line and kicked the chestnut toward the hunters as they disappeared behind a stand of tall pines. He looked so small as he raced to catch them and Max could see he was a natural on a horse, making him laugh at the sheer joy on the boy's face as he looked back at him.

"Come on Sheila, he's making us look bad," Max said as he urged the mare into a slow gallop.

The wind was picking up as he entered the cool shade of the forest, breathing deeply of the spicy scent of the pines. He could see the others just ahead of him, weaving between the thick trunks, the sounds of their horses muted by the bed of dried pine needles that covered the forest floor. When he caught up he saw that Sage had been given charge of one of the packhorses, and he looked so proud even Hand couldn't hold back a smile. The six Arapaho had spread out looking for sign, so there wasn't much conversation, but the further away from camp they pushed the more Max noticed uneasiness among the men.

"We've been on this track for a good two hours, brother. We still on the reservation?" Max finally questioned as they stopped below a wooded ravine.

"We follow deer sign," he replied, as if that was the only answer.

The men remained silent as they moved up into the ravine, constantly stopping to listen and to look for any sign that might lead them to their prey. Meals had been sparse the last couple of days and Max could see the worry on Hand's face as they spread out to search, hoping to cross the track of a herd of whitetail deer that had been spotted earlier that morning. The light was constantly changing as large thunderclouds moved on the wind and the first few spatters of rain gave their trek a sense of urgency. A soft whistle and a raised bow finally signaled that one of the hunters had spotted the trail and men swiftly slipped off their mounts and tied them to the nearest branch. They moved silently up to the ridgeline, arming their bows as they spread out, Hand putting a warning finger to his lips as Max cocked the Winchester, making him aware he would be the last to fire lest he spook the herd. There was a sensitive silence when they finally spotted a small herd moving through the trees, each man notching an arrow as he lined up his prey, the deer completely unaware of their presence until the first one went down.

Hand caught his eye and motioned for him to bring up the packhorses, and he nodded and headed back down the slope. A man called Wolf joined him as the rain began. The Indian wore a flowered calico shirt and a dark blue breechcloth over his fringed leggings. He had several eagle feathers tied in his hair and carried an old army carbine, one of the few he'd seen in the village. Max had asked about him earlier and been told he was from a band on the southern edge of the reservation, which accounted for the "white man's clothes" as Little Shield had called them. The members of the chief's band kept to the old ways and wore only what they made themselves. He even frowned on trade beads, but the women had complained and he had given into their desire for the brightly colored beads to decorate their dresses and the buckskins of their men. Max realized how much he was enjoying his time among the Arapaho. He admired the way they looked out for one another and for their determination to survive no matter what. They were a strong people and he was grateful they had taken him in.

As they navigated their way down, Wolf grabbed his arm to stop him, his eyes searching the rocky crags just below them, sniffing the air with concern. The low hollow growl of a mountain lion made the hair on his arms stiffen and his mouth went suddenly dry as he quickly started back down toward the horses. When he heard Sage scream he began to run, calling out his name as he cut between sharp edged boulders, slipping and sliding down the uneven ground. The wild squeals of the horses rose through the trees, their fear heightening his own as he rushed to reach the boy. He galloped through thick brush, finally breaking through to see the big cat on top of the boy, his body barely visible. Screaming out in raw anger he opened fire at the animal, charging him without thought. The growling animal leaped away as the bullets tore into its flesh, screaming out its own pain as it tried to run, only to die in a tangle of limbs.

"Sage...no, no, no," Max cried out, dropping his rifle as he skidded to his knees beside the boy's bloody body.

Max lifted him gently into his arms, surprised at how light he was as he closed his unseeing eyes. He whispered his name once again, smoothing his hand over his cheek, holding him as he trembled at the senselessness of it all. The man named Wolf, squatted down across from him and began a soft chant, and it made him angry and infinitely sad.

"He was just a little kid," he mumbled as the rain washed at the blood.

He felt the presence of the others as they gathered around, their voices soft as he picked the boy up in his arms, standing frozen for a minute as he tried to still his trembling anger. The horses had been rounded up and he saw that a couple of the braves had begun to skin the carcass of the dead mountain lion. Hand gripped his shoulder as he made his way toward Sheila, who shied with fear at the sickly smell of blood. He let Hand take the boy's body until he mounted, then took him once again into his arms, turning the horse back down the way they had come. Coming out of the forest, he looked to the sky, letting the rain wash away his embarrassing tears, as it slowly soaked his coat and shirt, now streaked with the blood of the innocent child who'd reminded him so much of himself.

Wolf road past him and led the way down toward the village, looking back occasionally, but he didn't acknowledge the man, his thoughts far away and his heart full of anger. Life was never fair, always unpredictable and sometimes cruel, he knew that. But he couldn't accept how truly unfair this boy's death was. Why did one survive and another die so young, his sudden happiness ripped away without warning. He had gotten too close to the boy and was finding the pain of his death hard to deal with. It had been a long time since he had mourned another's death, and it hurt. It was a hurt he wanted no part of. Staying among these people, getting closer until they became too important was something he couldn't tolerate. It was time to leave; time to protect himself from this kind of numbing pain.

By the time they reached the village, Hand was riding beside him as were a couple of the others. Wolf had ridden ahead to spread the word, and they were greeted by most of the people, the women keening loudly, setting his teeth on edge and deepening his bitterness. No one had cared much for the boy in life, but they honored him in death and that made no sense to him. The women reached up to take his body, but he refused to release him until Hand rode up close and gripped his shoulder, nodding for him to let the boy go.

"They will take care of him now, Bear," the big Arapaho said kindly.

"Should have done that before he died," Max said coldly, but letting go so they could take him.

He sat silently as they carried Sage away, and he began to lose his tenuous hold on his emotions, so he pulled back roughly on the reins and turned Sheila away, kicking her hard and she leaped into a gallop. He raced across the rough ground of the meadow and then down along the creek, urging the mare to go faster and faster, finally charging across the creek and heading down into the barren landscape below the village. He needed the mindless action, needed to feel the full out pounding of the horse's hooves and he needed to put space between himself and the dead boy he had started to care about. He rode until he could feel nothing. He rode until Sheila started to tire beneath him, lather coating her shining neck, making him come back to himself and he eased her down to a slow canter and then a walk.

"Sorry girl," he whispered through barely contained and angry tears.

The sky poured out its own tears and he rode silently onward, letting the cold rain soak him, hoping it would wash away the blood that streaked his clothes, an unwanted reminder of a once vibrant boy. He had no sense of where he was going, and didn't much care where he ended up, needing to get as far away as he could from the debilitating memory of the loss. His feelings had surprised him, and left him uncertain and angry that one small boy had gotten through his defenses. He shouldn't have let that happen, so he tried desperately to close off his heart, to disregard his sadness and the pain. He'd done it once. Now he needed to do it again, to regain control of unwieldy emotions, to steel himself and leave the feelings behind.

A sharp crack of thunder sent Sheila shying sideways, almost unseating him and reminding him he needed to find some sort of shelter. The rain was falling hard now as the sky darkened, and blinding flashes of lightening lit up the dark underbelly of the clouds as he searched for some place to wait out the storm. The small streams he crossed were now gushing with water that was pouring down the gullies of the looming mountains. The land was mostly barren here save for the scattering of sagebrush and he knew there were no other villages in the vicinity, so he hunched over his saddle and endured, heading for higher ground on the ridge line he could just make out ahead. Slogging through the mud at the base of the ridge, he guided Sheila up the rough, slippery slope toward a mishmash of fallen trees he'd spotted, hoping they might provide the shelter he needed to wait out the storm. A sudden bolt of lightening struck a tree just above their path, sending bright showers of sparks down around them, frightening Sheila into losing her footing on the softened ground. Her hind legs skidded out from under her and the mare stumbled to her knees, squealing loudly as she fought to regain her footing. Max launched himself out of the saddle for fear she'd roll on him, landing hard on his shoulder and tumbling head over heels down the muddy slope until he collided with the base of a tree. He lay still for a moment, stunned and breathless, but quickly searched for his mare through the gray, unrelenting downpour, ignoring the dull pain in his side as he struggled to his feet.

"Sheila...come on girl," he coaxed, desperately hoping she hadn't broken a leg.

He could see her standing with her head down and figured she was trying to catch her breath just like he was, so he waited, pressing his back against the solid tree for support. He didn't think he could make it back up the slope, so he whistled softly, hoping Sheila responded. He saw her prick her ears, and her head finally came up as she looked for him, shaking her head and snorting out what he thought was probably her own response to their predicament. She shook herself and started toward him, but stopped briefly and lowered her head again. She whinnied softly as if calling for help, but began her slow descent again, and this time it was obvious that she was favoring her left hind leg.

"Dammit," he cursed softly, rubbing both hands down the sides of his muddy pants.

By the time Sheila reached him she was quivering, but stepped up and pressed her long nose against his chest, blowing out a deep fluttering breath as he stroked her neck and rubbed her ears.

"Sorry girl. My fault," he confessed.

Leaning against her, he took a couple of deep breaths and tried to decide what to do. He was cold and tired and hurting, his anger finally having waned in the drenching rain. He began to run his hands over Sheila, welcoming her body heat as he searched for injuries. Kneeling In front of her, he felt along both legs, noting the skinned knees before turning his attention to her hindquarters. He could see she wasn't putting any weight on her left foot, and his hand stroked down until he felt the long jagged gash in the small muscle above her hock and he cursed as his hand came away with blood on it.

"Why'd you have to go and fall down, old girl," he questioned as he stood and laid his head on her rump. "You're getting kinda clumsy in your old age. Might have to pick up a younger and prettier little filly if we ever get outa here."

Sheila let out a low groan and shivered and that made up his mind. He had to take her back to the village. He couldn't risk losing her because of his anger and stubbornness. She had been his true companion for almost five years and she hadn't been young when he'd found her abandoned in the high desert west of Santa Fe. She'd been fully saddled and unbranded, but there was no sign of her rider, so he had taken her with him and she had seemed grateful, nickering softly as if thanking him and pushing against him when he'd unsaddled her. No one in town recognized her or the saddle, so he'd sold it, had a nice dinner and a bath and had brought her a carrot he'd found in one of the stalls on the plaza. It was after eating the carrot that she had stepped forward and pressed her head into his chest, a thank you of sorts he had guessed at the time. She had continued the greeting everyday he came to the stables, so he sold his gelding and rode out on her two days later, headed for Texas.

"Come on girl. We'll walk back," he said as he pulled the reins over her head and slowly led her down off the ridge.

He'd lost his hat again and that brought back memories of Sage, his mind lingering on the shy look on the boy's face when he'd returned it earlier in the day. He was glad it was gone, knowing it would always remind him of the boy.

The pace was slow and the longer he walked, the more he felt every ache and pain from his tumble down the hill. He didn't think he'd broken any ribs, but they were sure as hell badly bruised and he silently cursed his bad luck. Sheila would groan every once in awhile, and he would stop to give her time to gather her strength, leaning against her shoulder for the warmth her big body offered. The clouds were becoming indistinct, fading to a dark, steely gray and the air was foggy with rain making it difficult to see. Stumbling over unseen rocks and sagebrush, he went down several times as he made his way back, unsure if he was even going the right way. He had blindly run from the village and the death there, and had taken no notice of the direction he had headed, so he searched the meager landscape for any recognizable sign that he was on the right trail. The streams were now rushing torrents of muddy water and he had to search for the best way to cross each one they came to. Even Sheila was shivering now and he stopped once again to check her leg, his hands trembling and numb from the cold. Water dripped from the long strands of his hair into his eyes and he felt his strength ebbing away, so he grabbed ahold of the saddle and pulled himself to his feet, starting forward on sheer willpower and concern for the welfare of his horse. He had no idea how long he'd been walking or how far he'd come or had yet to go, but he had no choice so he continued to put one foot in front of the other, slogging through the brush and soggy ground. The incessant rain seemed to be lessening, but the sound of another rushing creek hinted at another rough crossing and he inwardly groaned, cursing himself for being stupid.

"Well, old lady, we can't get any wetter," he said, forcing out a laugh as he walked the edge of the turbulent, overflowing stream, looking for a good crossing in the murky light.

Sheila whinnied, and he looked back to see her start across the creek, her ears pricked forward. He hurried back and managed to snag her tail, following her through the strong current, and fighting to keep his feet in the rocky streambed. Stepping into a hole, he lost his grip on the mare's tail and went under, choking as he took in a mouthful of gritty water. Carried downstream, he struggled frantically to get his head above water and get back on his feet, the sound of Sheila's wild whinny calling to him out of the dense mist. He finally managed to grab onto some sagebrush and pulled himself up on the crumbling bank, gasping for air as he crawled out on hands and knees and rolled over onto his back in the soft mud.

"You picked a great spot, old girl, and I won't forget it," he said without much breath. "It was payback, right? Still pissed about that tumble on the ridge. We're even now, okay? We're even."

His final few words were no more than a whisper and he found he couldn't move, feeling ice cold and complete devoid of energy as he lay barely conscious on the muddy ground. He felt Sheila's presence and smiled silently as she nuzzled his neck, blowing warm air out over his face.

"I'm just gonna rest a minute," he murmured, knowing he shouldn't go to sleep, but his arms were numb, his feet too, and he was unable to keep his eyes open.

A sharp high whinny made him jerk awake with no idea how long he'd been there and he raised his head to glare at the mare.

"I'm trying to sleep here," he mumbled, before noticing that the rain had slacked off. "You still mad at me, old girl?"

The soft nicker of a horse far to his left had him reaching for his gun as he rolled over onto his elbows, searching the gathering darkness for the source. A soft whoop and then a replying whistle got him reaching up to grab the stirrup so he could pull himself to his feet and defend himself.

"Don't move too quick, or I shoot," he called as he leaned against the mare, even though he couldn't get a good enough grip on the handle of the Colt to even pull it.

"Do not shoot me, Bear," a familiar voice replied. "We have come to find you."

The sight of Hand and Wolf and the rest of the hunters left him weak with relief, causing him to lose his grip on the saddle. He staggered, laughing and finally falling to his knees.

"Did you run far enough to find yourself?" Hand asked softly as he knelt in front of him.

"Came back for Sheila. She's hurt. Got a deep cut on her left hind leg," he said, ignoring the odd question and too exhausted to move.

"He is stubborn white man," Wolf growled as he helped Hand lift him to his feet.

Hand passed him to another one of the hunters and then moved to check on Sheila, running a hand along her neck, before patting her gently on the shoulder. Speaking softly to her in Arapaho he moved his hand over her rump and down her thigh until he felt the gash. Max watched him carefully as he gently stroked her lower leg between his big hands, feeling for any breaks or swelling and when he rose to his feet, he looked for any sign from the man that she could survive this.

"She good?" He asked nervously.

"You go. I will lead her back," Hand said, and then gave firm instructions he couldn't understand to the men surrounding him.

Four Arapaho suddenly manhandled him onto Hand's pinto, holding him there and ignoring his protests. He struggled a bit, but was too exhausted and numb with cold to fight them. Wolf leaped up behind him and wrapped a muscled arm around his waist and he groaned at the dizzying pain that flared around his ribs.

"How far you walk, Hohóókee?" Wolf asked, easing up on his grip.

"Don't know. Made it to the ridge back there before we fell," he said breathlessly.

"Long way," he said softly as he turned back toward the village.

"Why'd you come?"

"Chief understand your sorrow," he replied as he eased the pinto into a slow rhythmic gallop. "One death...too many."

The constant, repetitive movement and much needed warmth from the man behind him and the horse between his legs slowly lulled him and he slumped into a restless stupor. When everything stopped, he felt hands lifting him, and he woke briefly, but he couldn't manage a sentence and his legs wouldn't hold him. He was shivering badly as they hauled him into the familiar tipi and the same women began to strip him of his wet clothes as they had done when he'd first come here.

This time he was too cold and numb to protest. This time he welcomed their soft voices and kind ministrations. This time he was just thankful someone cared.

...


	4. Chapter 4

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 4_

...

He stood alone and silent, concentrating on the weight of the stones he held loosely in his hands. They were warm. He'd taken them from the bank of the streambed where he had invited Sage to go with him on the hunt. He had washed them in the creek, the red mud that clung to them reminding him of the blood that had marked the boy's still body. The stones he'd selected were smooth and without blemish, because it seemed appropriate. He was so young.

The grave was small and it was lonely here on the bluff. The people had buried him according to their customs on the same day he'd died, way out here west of the village. They let him mourn the boy alone and he was grateful for that. Little Shield had spoken softly with him when he'd finally woken, sharing some of their beliefs and traditions. The boy's clothes had been burned and the few small items he had owned had been buried with him. Hand had told him not to go into the tipi the boy had lived in, but he'd had no desire to anyway, simply asking where his grave was. It was then he learned about the stones and he wanted to honor the boy, so he'd gone to the creek.

He knelt and placed a smooth dark stone on top of the rough ones already there, then laid a pale stone down next to it.

"I knew who you were," Max whispered. "We were alike, you and me, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you that."

He stood up and turned away, pushing down the sudden familiar anger that flashed at the injustice and started the walk back down to the village. Hand had told him that he needed to go through some sort of purification ceremony because he had carried the boy's body back, but he had told him he wasn't much interested in that. Little Shield gave him no choice however, so he prepared himself for what was to come, having no idea what that might be, just hoping it didn't involve water.

The people he had met as he'd walked through the village had been respectful, kind even, which had surprised him, considering all the trouble he'd caused. The old woman who had hit him with a deer antler the first day he'd come had offered him a knife in a buckskin sheath decorated with fringe and quillwork in an arrowhead pattern of pale green and white around a red cross. He had refused to take it, but Wolf had shoved him hard in the back and told him it had been her husband's second favorite knife and that he would dishonor the woman if he didn't accept it.

Wolf hadn't left his side since he'd gotten up that morning, presenting him with a black calico shirt patterned with tiny blue flowers to replace his bloody one with only one sleeve. He wasn't sure why he was receiving these gifts, but he did appreciate the shirt. His jacket was a mess as well, and the older women had laughed and shaken their heads when they'd seen him trying to wash the blood out of it in the creek.

"Grandfather is ready," Hand called out as he rode up with Wolf leading an extra horse.

"Can I check on Sheila first?" Still unsure what he was in for.

"She is good, Bear," he assured him.

"When will she be ready to ride?" He asked as he leaped up on the bare back of a blue roan.

"You go?" Wolf asked.

"I need a job. Some money to live on," he replied as he rode between them, getting slightly bewildered looks from both of them.

"You hunt with us. You eat," Hand said firmly. "The horses are calm with you. You breed Sheila to my pinto. Keep first colt. Man with horses can marry."

"I can't stay, brother," Max replied. "And I sure as hell ain't gettin' married."

"Red Bird would have you," Hand said, slapping his arm with the back of his hand.

He couldn't help the slow grin that spread across his face, but he shook his head no and kicked the roan into a gallop, racing down toward the village to get purified or whatever the good god they were going to do to him. These men had saved his life once, and if they hadn't come for him last night, he wasn't sure what sort of shape he would be in or if he would have even survived. It might be spring, but snow still dressed the high mountain peaks and the stream he had fallen into had been icy, and had left him shivering long into the night. He owed them, but he needed to move on. He thought of them as friends, which was rare for him, but he didn't need more personal complications. He was a loner. It was easier that way. No one to look out for but himself and his horse. Getting close to somebody only ended in pain. Sage had proven that to him once again.

"So, tell me about this ceremony," Max asked as they rode into the village. "It's not gonna hurt is it? I'm still sore from fallin' down that ridge."

"He is afraid, Beecét," Wolf said with a slight smile, earning a scowl from Max.

"We go to sweat lodge. Purify your spirit so shadow spirit does not follow you," Hand said as he slowed his pinto to a walk. "Smoke of sweetgrass will make spirits happy."

"Are you sayin' I might be haunted if I don't do this?" Max was starting to feel a little uncomfortable with that implied threat, not that he believed in that kind of thing.

"Trust Grandfather. He will smoke his sacred pipe and talk to the spirits for you," Hand said as they moved toward a low circular lodge covered in blankets.

The faces of the men became solemn as they slid from their horses and began to strip themselves of ornaments and clothing except for their breechcloths and moccasins. Hand motioned for him to do the same and he took a deep breath, just wanting to get this over with.

"I'm keepin' my pants on today," he said defiantly, but slipped out of his shirt and boots.

Hand cocked his head in acceptance as he held back the flap for him to go in. Heated air and the sweet smell of cedar smoke engulfed him as he entered, his skin quickly prickling with sweat. It was close and dark inside except for the glow of the fire, and he wondered what was in store for him as he lowered himself to the ground. Little Chief sat opposite him holding a long wooden pipe strung with eagle feathers, and speaking only in Arapaho so Max had no idea what he was saying. The old man held the pipe up to all four directions, his chanting soft and melodic. Max found himself beginning to lose track of time as his head became clouded with dizziness from the smoke. When the pipe was finally offered to him, he became humbled by the solemnness of the occasion and the fact they were allowing him to take part in what was to them a very sacred ceremony. Not wanting to disrespect the old warrior, he inhaled the sweet tobacco and then passed the pipe to Hand. When it had made the rounds, a bundle of sage was lit and Little Shield blew the smoke toward him, watching him carefully. Max closed his eyes, lightheaded from the heat, his mind flashing with long forgotten images, most of which he had no desire to revisit. He became languid as his muscles loosened, the soft chanting and heady smoke and heat relaxing him almost into a stupor.

"You must let your anger go," Little Shield urged in a kind voice. "Your path has been a heavy one to walk, and a shadow follows you and makes you angry."

His words sent a chill through him and he opened his eyes to stare at the old man, who held his gaze with a knowing look.

"You carry two hearts and must choose the one to follow," he told him. "You have a good heart. Do not let the dark one hide it from you."

Max felt his eyes water and he wasn't sure it was from the smoke, his mind tumbling with images from his childhood and the names he had left behind. He was starting to feel trapped, his mind invaded somehow by an old Indian he'd known for less than a week. He couldn't know about his life. He couldn't know the fear he had carried for so long. He couldn't know the things he'd done, the things that had made him a hard man.

"I need to go," he whispered, and struggled to his feet, pushing his way out into the clean air.

He stood trembling outside, fighting to catch his breath and shake off the invasive words of the old warrior. He wanted no part of this, and grabbed his shirt, slipped on his boots and started toward the creek. Hand and Wolf stopped him and he rounded on them, pushing them away as Little Shield ducked out from the sweat lodge and stood watching him with a soft, knowing look in his eyes.

"You fight the spirits that hold you. You are a warrior. Keep fighting, Crazy Bear," the old man said. "A dark one follows you. Not from here. It is an old spirit. One you know. One you fear. Follow your good heart and the old spirit will not know you. It cannot find someone it does not know."

"Is Sheila ready to ride?" He asked Hand, ignoring the old man.

"Tomorrow," Hand said firmly.

Suddenly feeling exhausted and weak, he finally nodded in agreement. He would get on with his life in the morning.

...

Three men watched as a lone rider slowly approached the edge of town on a striking dapple-gray horse rarely seen in this part of the country. They looked at each other, silently questioning if the rider was known, but the sheriff shook his head no and the two men turned their attention back to assess the oncoming rider. When they saw the packhorse and the burden it carried, they came out of their relaxed stance, their hands instinctively finding the butt of their pistols.

"That don't look promisin'," the sheriff said gruffly, spitting out a stream of tobacco as he nervously resettled his well-worn hat.

The thin rider paused briefly to look around and seeing the three men and the sign overhead, turned the horse in their direction and pulled up in front of them.

"Which one of you is the sheriff?" The voice rather no nonsense, but pleasant.

"That'd be me, kid," he answered, pulling back his tan jacket to reveal a badge. "Sheriff Harry Preston. Now, who might you be and who's the dead man?"

"I'm not a kid. I'm MacKenzie Blye."

"And you're a woman," the quiet blue-eyed man breathed out.

"Knew I was smart to partner up with you," the black man said, his face softening with a quick smile.

"Heard about you from some Texas boys a few years back. Thought they was just foolin' with me. Them Texans can tell some pretty tall tales," Sheriff Preston said with a bemused look on his face. "Guess they weren't lyin'. Never met no female bounty hunter before. You might just be the only one."

The woman didn't respond, just shook her head as if she'd heard it all before. She was dressed like a man, all in dark brown, with her flat brimmed hat pulled low over her eyes, and her dark hair woven into a long braid that fell down the center of her back. She wore a knee length duster, and her plain muddy boots were worn over her pants and hit her just below the knees. The only color she sported was a pale blue neckerchief streaked with dried blood.

"You wounded?" The blue-eyed man asked as he stepped down into the dusty street.

"I'm fine. It's his blood," She said as she eased down off of her horse.

"And he would be?"

"Why is it any of your business?" She asked, sounding annoyed as she went through her saddlebags.

"Because I'm a U. S. Marshal," he replied.

"Good for you," she said as she pulled out a folded piece of paper and held it out to the sheriff. "Bounty's two hundred dollars. His name was Curley Jack Owens. Wanted for robbery and the murder of a soldier up at Fort Steele last month."

"I don't think she likes you Captain Callen," the black man said as he stood admiring the long rifle in the scabbard on her saddle. "Where'd you shoot him lady?"

"What do you mean by that?" She said, her eyes flashing angrily.

"A Sharps rifle like this can take out a man at five hundred yards, even further," he replied calmly. "You that good?"

"Yeah, I am," she said coolly. "This one I shot when he drew on me...from ten yards."

"You wouldn't be from Texas would ya?" Sheriff Preston asked. "Cause I find that a tad hard to believe."

"And I really don't care. I brought him in and I want that bounty," she said firmly, her face hard and uncompromising.

"Gotta wire for the money as soon as I confirm this is who you say it is," the sheriff said, spitting tobacco close to her feet.

Callen stepped in front of her as she started toward the man, putting his hand up and smiling softly as he shook his head.

"He's from Missouri, so you'll have to forgive his lack of manners," Callen said. "Need help getting your bounty off the back of that horse?"

"Don't need help," she said brusquely, turning to her packhorse and quickly untying the body, which slid unceremoniously to the ground.

"This place have a hotel?" She asked.

"Not much of one, but it does have a good cook. Even has oysters," Callen said kindly.

"The Rocky Mountain kind or real ones?" She asked with a slight smile.

"Thankfully the real ones," he replied with a short laugh. "Livery stable is down the street."

"Thanks," she said as she took both horses' reins in hand, and looked curiously at the black man calmly stroking the neck of her gray.

"You gotta name?" She questioned boldly.

"Everybody's got a name," he said lightly. "Sometimes more than one. Mine's U.S. Marshal Hanna."

"What's your other name?"

"Sam. You always this nosy?" He asked and turned as the sheriff growled out an unsavory comment that had Sam's jaw clinching in response.

"You don't want to get on Sam's bad side Preston," Callen said reasonably. "He's not as easy going as he looks."

"If you ask me, he could kick your backside without blinking an eye," MacKenzie said sharply to the sheriff. "And that I might just pay to see. Doesn't look like much else to do around here."

"You could join me and Sam for dinner," Callen said.

"Won't be too comfortable, Missy," the sheriff said as he stood staring down at the corpse. "They don't serve his kind at the hotel dining room."

"Let it go, Sam," Callen said calmly, as Sam became rigid at his side.

"I'd like the company," MacKenzie said as she started leading her horses up the street. "Send that wire, sheriff. I don't like staying in one place too long."

"Women shouldn't wear men's britches," Preston grumbled as he marched up the two steps to the door of his office. "It ain't right. It's unnatural is what it is."

"You're concerned with how she's dressed and not that she outdrew a wanted man?" Callen asked, his eyebrows rising in disbelief.

"She's probably lyin'," the sheriff snarled. "Probably just found his body on the trail somewheres and took it."

"I'll tell her you said that," Callen said.

"You do that, Marshal. I don't much care for that so-called woman," the sheriff shot back.

"I don't think she cares too much for you either," Sam said boldly.

"Watch your attitude, boy," Preston snapped.

"Watch yours," Callen said coldly. "He's a United States Marshal and I suggest you respect that."

"Or what?" The sheriff said, standing defiantly in the doorway with his hand close to his gun.

"Or I might do a little bit of digging into your history in Missouri " Callen warned. "Always wonder why someone leaves their home and comes out west."

"You ain't perfect neither, I'm thinkin'," Preston sneered.

"But I'll still have a job, and you'll be looking for a new one," Callen said with a steely smirk.

"What's this world come to...women in britches and slaves wearin' badges," the man snorted.

"I wasn't no slave," Sam said angrily.

"Haven't you heard Preston? Lincoln freed the slaves. There was even a civil war you might of heard about," Callen said as he pulled Sam away. "Maybe if you read a book now and then you might learn some things."

"Be on your way, Marshal. I got a dead man to deal with," he snarled, spitting tobacco in their direction before turning back inside.

"Why'd you let him get to you?" Callen asked, as they turned toward the stables. "You've heard worse."

"Why do they all think every black man was a slave?" He asked.

"I'd go with ignorance," Callen smirked. "Especially in his case."

"I liked that woman in the britches," Sam said with a slow smile.

"I liked the way she looked in those britches," Callen shot back.

"You interested?"

"Why not?"

"Cause she would probably kick your behind just to show you whose boss," Sam reasoned.

"She is interesting," Callen replied.

"Like nothing I've ever seen," Sam laughed.

...

Marshal Callen sat alone in the back corner of the hotel dining room. It was rather plain, with just a few Victorian mirrors, but the owner did set out white tablecloths for dinner, having come out west when he bankrupted his plantation in South Carolina. Callen didn't like the man much since he'd ordered Sam from his establishment before he'd gotten two steps in the door, but it was one of the few places to eat, unless you liked beans and pork belly, and he had nothing against the cook. Sam had begged off tonight, telling him he was giving him a chance with the lady in britches and so he wouldn't be embarrassed when she put him in his place.

Callen drained the last of his beer and was looking over the menu again when he heard all the conversations hush. When he looked up, the woman he saw walking toward him looked a lot different than the one he'd met that afternoon. Her black hair hung loose around her shoulders and her light blue shirt was fresh, although slightly rumpled, and she wore a deep brown riding skirt that came down past the top of her now clean boots. He swallowed hard when she smiled at him, and immediately stood to pull out the chair across from him.

"Thank you," she said shyly. "It's been awhile since I've shared a proper meal with a gentleman."

Callen found himself at a loss for words. She was quite beautiful in the flickering gaslight, and he wanted to know everything about her. He silently handed her his menu and then motioned for the waiter.

"They aahh...they make a mean stew, and they do a Hangtown Fry...if you like eggs and oysters...the real ones, like I said before," he stumbled over his words and she leaned back and stared at him with a bemused smile on her face.

"Do I make you uncomfortable?" She asked as the waiter arrived.

"No. I just haven't been around a beautiful woman in awhile," he slowly breathed out.

"Oh," she said, looking embarrassed and quickly started to read the menu. "I'll have the steak and cornbread."

"Stew and cornbread," Callen ordered. "Anything to drink for you?"

"Beer, please."

"Another for me," he said, sending the man on his way. "No taste for oysters, then?"

"Had enough of both kinds when I lived in Denver," she replied.

"Do you have family there?" He asked.

"No," she replied, her eyes flitting nervously around the room. "How about you? You from around here?"

"Born in Chicago, escaped as soon as I could," he replied, frowning as he looked into his beer.

"Family?"

"No."

They went quiet for a while and both appeared grateful when the food arrived. They ate in silence, MacKenzie eating through her steak ravenously as if she hadn't eaten in weeks. Callen found her fascinating and odd.

"That rifle is a serious weapon," he said as he pushed the remains of his stew away.

"And you're surprised a girl carries it," she said, obviously irritated.

"I didn't say that," he replied earnestly. "I'm just curious about it. It's old. Army. I'm thinking Civil War era."

"It was my father's," she said softly. "He was killed at the Battle of Yellow Tavern, in May of '64. 5th Michigan under Custer."

"General Sheridan took out Jeb Stuart that day," Callen noted in a subdued voice.

"You were in the war?" Sounding surprised. "You don't look old enough."

"I was fifteen," he said softly. "No choice. I either joined the army or went to jail."

"Where?"

"Stones River...Chickamauga. It's where I met Sam," he answered, but his eyes turned inward, his mind drifting into dark memories. "He saved my life."

"I thought the black troops were separate," she said, noticing his increasing withdrawal.

"It was chaos," he said darkly, and stood up suddenly his eyes searching for the door.

"I could use some air," she said, standing and taking his arm. "Why don't you show me the town."

He nodded gratefully and left some money on the table, trying to ignore some of the comments that followed them. The sheriff seemed to have passed around the story about the woman bounty hunter and he found himself glaring at some of the laughing men. He knew what it felt like to be easily dismissed, but he'd learned early on to ignore taunts unless they were made to his face. Most men were sorry if they made that mistake.

"Sam called you captain earlier," MacKenzie said as they walked. "You were too young for that to happen during the war."

"Beautiful and smart," he replied lightly. "You always this inquisitive?"

"It's gotten to be a habit," she said, dropping his arm. "If you don't want to answer I understand."

"Headed west after my wounds healed," he said distantly, unsure why he was sharing that fact with this woman. "Took to rangering when I got to Texas. Made captain after a couple of years."

"Was Sam with you then?"

"No. Ran into Sam again when my unit got into it with some Comanches," he laughed. "He was a Buffalo Soldier by then. A sergeant. They pulled our butts outa that little showdown."

"How'd you both end up as United States Marshals?"

"Why are you so interested?" He asked stonily, finally tired of being interrogated.

"Haven't been around good people for a while," she said softly. "Been tracking outlaws and sleeping out in the open. Guess I just missed holding a decent conversation with someone who wasn't trying to shoot me."

"You chose a lonely life," he remarked. "A hard one too. Why?"

"After my father was killed, my mother moved us west. Denver," she said, her voice taking on a hard quality and Callen could sense her reluctance. "When I was thirteen she remarried. A cattle rancher. His holdings weren't that far from here. He took an interest in me and taught me to ride and shoot and track and..."

Hesitating, her eyes glistened briefly with tears and he reached out to touch her arm, but she jerk away and he could see the warning that flashed across her face. She held onto her pain. He understood that, more than he wanted to admit. Watching as she gathered herself, he wondered if she would continue her story. He wanted to hear it. He'd never met anyone like her.

"Rustlers killed them both," she said quickly.

"You went after them didn't you?" He said, admiring her strength and determination.

"Charley Feld taught me how to take care of myself," she said with an edge to her voice. "I was seventeen when he and my mother were killed. Nobody did anything. The killers were never caught and I couldn't live with that, so when I reached eighteen I tracked them down and shot them both."

"Any repercussions from that?"

"I'm a girl," she said flippantly. "No one believes a girl could do what I did."

"They all underestimate you and that's your advantage," he said evenly.

"You gonna arrest me?" She asked warily, her odd eyes flashing dangerously.

"I only have your word that what you say actually happened," he said, his eyebrows rising as he smiled. "And who's gonna believe a tall tale like that. Sheriff Preston sure as hell wouldn't."

She finally smiled and they resumed their walk to the stables. Callen felt a connection that was rare for him. Not a romantic one as he'd initially hoped, but a common bond over a sense of right and wrong, and the deep need to balance the scales and seek justice. He wasn't sure where that need had come from, and she probably didn't know either, but they recognized it in each other and it had drawn them to one another.

"Sam? Brought you a visitor," Callen called softly at the open stable door. "Sam?"

The lantern was out and the stable was steeped in deep shadows, the only sound coming from the horses as they shuffled around their stalls. Callen went cold with dread as he quickly moved closer to the doorway. They'd had a run in with a couple of Southern boys earlier who didn't appreciate Sam's elevated station in life, but they had been too cowardly to try anything openly. Now he feared they'd returned to take out their resentment on his partner and he was angry with himself for leaving him alone. He should have known better.

"Stay here," he whispered to MacKenzie as he drew his pistol.

"You forget I can take care of myself?"

"You're unarmed," he hissed.

"No I'm not," she said and pulled a long knife out of her boot and moved past him into the deep shadows inside.

Quickly following her, they moved in unison down the center of the stable, their sense of hearing and an inborn survival instinct their only guide as they waited for their eyes to adjust. The back door was open and the strained sounds of a struggle drew them forward. Callen knew how strong Sam was, and that there had to be more than two men involved or they wouldn't have been able to take him. MacKenzie leaned silently against the open door and peered outside, quickly drawing her head back, holding up five fingers that were barely visible in the muted light from the waning moon. Callen nodded and stepped out, unwilling to wait. He felt nothing but hot anger at the sight of his partner on his hands and knees, surrounded by five armed men, and he fired in the air before one could bring the stock of a rifle down on Sam's head.

"Lose your weapons and step away or I'll shoot you down," he shouted, firing at a second man who stupidly pulled his gun.

One of the men kicked Sam over and he collapsed with a low moan, distracting Callen enough for the others to make their move. They were in close quarters now, and the men charged. Callen saw a brief flash as MacKenzie's knife flew into the chest of a heavily bearded attacker, but he had no time to admire it as the man with the rifle drove the stock into his ribs, knocking the air out of him and striking his gun from his hand. He managed to grab the barrel of the rifle and pull the man down of top of him as he fell to the ground, rolling over and over in the dirt, fighting to press the gun into the man's throat as he straddled him. He sensed someone behind him before he felt a powerful fist slam into his lower back, weakening him further as he stared into the grimacing face of one of the Southerners. The man above him suddenly cried out as he was pulled from his back, and he could hear a drawled out curse as he fought. Callen finally found the strength to push the rifle down hard on the man beneath him, a strangled gasp the last he uttered as he passed out. Rolling off onto the ground, Callen watched in amazement as MacKenzie fought the remaining man with multiple kicks, blocking his punches with her arms and then dropping him with a solid backward kick between the legs. He'd never seen anyone fight like that and he smiled at her as she offered him a hand up.

"Get this Johnny Reb off me, G," Sam gasped out.

They both turned to see his arm wrapped around the neck of an unconscious attacker who was sprawled out on top of him. Shoving the dead man off him, Callen knelt beside his partner, who now had his eyes closed and was breathing heavily, his face bloody and swollen.

"Sam? You okay?" He asked, his trembling voice betraying his concern.

"Just need to catch my breath," he whispered. "Glad you brought the lady in britches. She kicked the bejeezus outa that Reb's ass."

"It wasn't his ass I kicked," MacKenzie reminded them.

"Where'd you learn to fight like that?" Callen asked as they helped Sam to his feet.

"We had a Chinese cook," he answered. "Said he learned it in a Shaolin temple in China. Called it Taming the Tiger."

"Or creating one," Callen said as he draped Sam's arm over his shoulder and helped him inside the barn.

The lantern suddenly flared to life as the sheriff and a few others hurried toward them. In the light, the beating Sam had taken reignited Callen's anger and he was in no mood for any disparaging remarks from the men who came to a halt in front of them.

"Five men jumped Marshal Hanna," he said immediately. "You'll find what's left of them out back."

"Trouble seems to follow all three of you," Sheriff Preston commented. "Hope you're not stayin' long."

"Soon as Sam is able, we're heading to Saratoga Springs," Callen replied as he eased Sam down onto his bedroll.

"Mind if I ride along?" MacKenzie asked quietly. "I heard they were having trouble with rustlers down there."

"More like a range war," he answered. "Whadda think, Sam? Be nice to have a pretty face on the trail."

A hard punch in the arm startled him and the two lawmen stared at each other and then laughed.

"You're lucky she didn't demonstrate one of those tiger moves on you," Sam said.

"Sorry Miss Blye. Didn't mean to offend you," Callen bowed formally, but backed away when he saw the warning in her eyes.

"Call me MacKenzie," she ordered. "And remember I can take care of myself."

"It'll be a pleasure ridin' with you, Ma'am," Sam said softly.

"Did you just call me ma'am?"

"You need to forgive him for that. He's been hit in the head a few times tonight," Callen said, trying to placate the feisty woman.

"Yeah, sorry, Sam," she said, looking embarrassed. "Let me help you get cleaned up. Neither one of you is looking too good."

"That sounded slightly insulting," Callen said. "We took down five bushwhackers..."

"With my help," she interrupted. "And I don't have a mark on me."

"She's got you there, partner," Sam said and groaned loudly.

"You ever lose an argument?" Callen asked as he started cleaning the blood off of Sam's face with his neckerchief.

"Haven't met the man I couldn't take down in any kind of fight," she boasted.

"Don't ever believe that," a very serious Callen cautioned. "It's dangerous. "Overconfidence will cost you your edge."

She stared at him, and he could see her weighing his comment, and hoped she would accept the advice. She didn't seem the kind who took criticism well, but she finally gave him a slight nod and he let out his breath.

"Well, I've never lost a verbal argument," she smiled. "Especially with a man."

"Oh, it'll happen one of these days," Callen smirked. "And I hope I'm there to see it."

...

...


	5. Chapter 5

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 5_

...

Max ran his hand over the sleeve of the soft buckskin jacket Red Bird had given him, fingering the fringe and once again admiring the blue and white arrowhead pattern of quillwork that draped across the shoulders. He'd tried to refuse it, but she had only smiled and pressed it to his chest. He had coveted it the moment he'd seen it, and was secretly pleased when she'd insisted he take it. The designs were simple and the golden color matched its warmth, which he was grateful for now as a cold wind whipped at the pale grasses on the plains around him. Hand and Wolf had left him at the southern edge of the reservation, asking him to stay with Little Shield's band one more time before nodding solemnly when he'd declined and telling him he would be welcome to return. Now, for the second day, he rode alone down toward the cattle ranches that had grown up in the area, seeking a new place to lay his head. He'd heard there'd been trouble down here and been given the name of a cattle baron who had bought a large swath of land above Saratoga Springs. He'd been told the man had come over from England to shoot buffalo and never left, and that had peaked his interest, having never met a man from another country unless you counted the Mexicans he'd ridden with along the Rio Grande. Those men had considered that part of the country theirs and he couldn't disagree, being one of the few white men around, and not if he wanted to live.

"Move along, Sheila. We gotta find us a nice warm place before it gets dark," he said as he coaxed her into a slow lope down the rise and onto the plains that stretched out beneath a pale sky painted with wispy clouds.

The ride was a long one and as the day settled toward evening he began to feel a slight limp in Sheila's gait and paused in the lee of a hill to check her. He'd ridden through a scattering of cattle over the last several miles and figured there had to be someone close by, and maybe a place to spend the night. He eased out of the saddle and knelt beside his mare, running his hand gently over the healing gash in her leg, feeling for heat. He felt her muscles tense and he patted her for reassurance, but then she neighed loudly and he stood quickly, searching the surrounding hills to see who was approaching.

"Howdy there," a man shouted out from the ridge above him.

He raised a hand to acknowledge him, but stayed on the far side of Sheila until he could decide if the three men were friend or foe. They started down the slope toward him and as they got closer he could hear them talking easily with one another and laughing. It seemed odd to him, but it did ease his mind and he took his hand off the butt of his six-gun.

"Your mare hurtin'?" The lead rider asked as he pulled his horse up. "Branch here is pretty darn good with horses. Want him to take a look see?"

"Okay," still a little wary, although they looked harmless.

The three men had to be in their fifties which was old for this part of the country. They were all clean-shaven except for a couple of impressive mustaches, and their clothes were worn, but colorful, again a bit different from what most men wore. They carried rifles in scabbards, but no sidearms, making him relax a little more.

"We ain't bushwhackers, son," the clean shaven one said calmly as he climbed down off a fine looking bay with black legs and mane.

"Coot woulda already shot ya if we was," a tall, thin old man said lightly as he urged his horse closer. "My name's Freeman, and these here are my brothers Coot and Branch. We gotta small ranch just yonder over the hill and you're welcome to stay if you like. Coot's the one with the droopy grey mustache. Branch there is jealous of it, he just won't own to it."

"Don't listen to the old son-of-a-gun, boy," Branch said kindly. "He likes to get under my skin whenever he can."

The man groaned and winced as he knelt down to check Sheila, his large calloused hands gentle as he ran them down her leg. "Tendon's a little swollen. I got something back at the ranch oughta make her feel better."

"I wouldn't want to be a bother," he finally said politely.

"Long as ya ain't a scalawag, you're welcome," Coot said, a slight question in his tone. "You don't work for Big Ed Thurston do ya?"

"No," Max unwilling to let them know that's where he was headed.

"You're a man of few words, son," Freeman laughed. "Come on up to the house and we'll get some vittles in ya and see if we can't get a few stories outa ya ta pass the time. Been a coon's age since we had visitors to supper."

"You're forgettin' George and his boy," Coot said as he swung his horse around to come along side Max. "Now there's a man can tell a good yarn. Breeds and trains real good cow ponies if ya ever decide to trade in your mare."

"She's been a faithful ol' girl," he replied softly and the man smiled and nodded.

The three men talked all the way back and Max was enjoying their way with each other. They seemed innocent, but he never trusted first impressions, his wariness around strangers just part of him. When they breasted a low ridge he caught sight of a long, low ranch house, which sat along a meandering stream partially bordered with thick willow bushes thrashing and bending in the gusting wind. There was a tiny orchard alongside the stream and a corral by the barn held several horses that now lined the fence, their ears pricking back and forth as they watched them approach, whinnying their own welcome.

He hadn't realized how tired he was until he unsaddled Sheila and started wiping her down. Branch brought over some oats and fresh water for her and started working some liniment into her muscles and down over her tendon.

"How'd she come by this gash," he asked.

"Lightning strike spooked her and she fell," he answered, running a comforting hand down her neck as she pressed her head into his chest.

"Reckon you took a tumble too," Branch said.

"I was lucky for a change."

"Spec you're lookin' for work," the old man said as he rubbed in more liniment. "And I'm fairly sure it's Big Ed Thurston you're tryin' to hire on with."

"Why do you say that?" Max asked, crossing his arms and leaning back against the stall.

"That ain't a cowboy's gun rig you got strapped to your leg," he replied.

"You know Thurston?"

"A mite. He sounds highfalutin' when he talks," Branch said as he stood to face him. "Never cottoned to him myself and Freeman don't think he's worth a hill of beans, but Coot believes he's the devil himself. He takes without askin', son."

"That it?" Max asked, giving nothing away as he answered.

"Bit of advice if you'll have it. Don't trust a word that man tells you," he said softly. "Now I mighta read you all wrong, but unless you're a cold hearted killer, that ain't no place for a good man."

Max saw something behind the old man's eyes and he knew he wasn't telling him everything, but his words struck him hard and he remained silent as they went up to the house. Wonderful smells permeated the warm room they entered, and the laughter stilled briefly when the two brothers and a woman saw him.

"These two idiots didn't tell me your name, young man," the gray haired woman said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Probably didn't even think to ask."

"Name's Max Gentry, ma'am," he answered softly.

"My name's Sarah Mueller. Freeman is my husband," she said warmly, taking his arm and leading him to a long wooden table covered in a red and white tablecloth set with prettily patterned blue and white plates and a bouquet of wild flowers in the middle.

"She makes the best pie you'll ever have in your life," Coot said. "What'd you bless us with tonight Sarah?"

"Apricot," she said as she pulled a piece of cotton sacking off two huge pies.

Max felt his mouth water instantly as the sweet aroma rose and his expression must have given him away, because her smile widened.

"Looks like it's been some time since you had pie," she said gently. "Your mama make pies for you?"

"When she could," he replied, his eyes softening at the long ago memory.

"Well, go on now and get washed up," she commanded, the men doing as they were told and dragging Max along with them.

"She made chicken and dumplings, boy," Freeman said. "You won't forget this meal, believe you me."

He couldn't seem to find his voice around these good people, but then he wasn't used to being around decent people and it made him shy. The brothers joked and shared memories of other meals, comparing their favorites and arguing about the merits of each. Max caught Branch watching him occasionally, and he was sure Coot didn't trust him much, but they treated him kindly in spite of their caution. The meal was all they said it would be and his stomach had growled loudly at his first bite of tender chicken, reminding him of his Arapaho friends and the name he had left behind.

"Is there a story that goes with that buckskin jacket you're wearin'?" Freeman asked. "Looks Arapaho."

"Stayed with them for awhile," he said, keeping his eyes on his plate as he made his way through his second helping.

"How'd that come about?" Coot questioned.

"Long story," he replied abruptly, and heard a grunt from Branch.

"Give the boy some peace now, all a you," Sarah said firmly. "Some folks don't like to talk as much as you three. At least let 'im have a piece of my pie before you pester him to death."

"Guess it really ain't none of our business," Branch said softly.

"But a good story does make the time pass," Coot said lightly. "You could tell us why you ain't wearin' a hat. That can't be too tough to tell."

Sharp, dark memories flooded his mind and he dropped his fork, a ghosting image of Sage holding his hat making his mouth go dry and his eyes clouded with sudden tears. He looked quickly up at Sarah, her softly wrinkled face full of kindness and understanding and he rose from his chair, knowing he didn't belong here.

"Thanks for the fine meal, ma'am," he murmured. "I'll head out to the barn for the night."

For the first time since he met them, the brothers were silent, watching him with what he thought was actual concern, and he wasn't sure what to do with that.

"Sit down and have your pie first, young man," Sarah's warm voice cutting through the quiet with a firmness he hadn't heard since he was a boy. "No need to run off cause these three don't know when to let well enough alone. Sit now. Those pies are still warm and they're best that way. Your mama wouldn't want you to forget your manners."

"Yes ma'am...I mean no ma'am," he stuttered uncharacteristically.

"I reckon you oughta sit and have her pie, before she gets the broom," Freeman cautioned. "Otherwise she's gonna get hoppin' mad and that ain't purty."

The brothers then began telling stories about Sarah "getting her dander up" as they called it, laughing as she scolded them and served large slabs of sweet smelling pie. As they laughed and ate and made fun of one another, it was as if warm water was being poured over him, with Sarah's laugh touching him and calming his usual anxious need to keep moving. They asked him no more questions and when they had finished most of the two pies and it was time to retire for the evening, Sarah wouldn't let him go to the barn, telling him it would be too cold. She wouldn't be denied and lit a lantern and led him to a back room with a small iron bed covered in a dark colored crazy quilt.

"When was the last time you seen your mama?" She asked.

"She died when I was fourteen," he said. "She used to tell me stories about Vikings and sailing ships."

"So you do know some pretty good tales," she said.

"None I've told in awhile," he said solemnly.

"The men meant no harm, Max," her words were spoken gently and with a calmness that eased his mind. "We live a lonely life out here, not many friends or visitors, so they're always looking for new stories to tell when night falls. We've been retelling the ones we know over and over. After awhile they lose their spice."

"Coot mentioned a friend...a horse breeder that you know?" Max was curious as he skimmed his hand across the top of the quilt.

"George Atwood and his son Joe," she nodded and smiled sadly. "We visited his place on Little Jack Creek a few months ago. His older boy Christopher was gunned down on the prairie. Joe found him and then went wild for a time. Almost didn't make it to the burial."

"Do they know who did it?" He asked.

"No one knows for sure, but we all got our suspicions," she said. "The big ranchers don't want us small holders using the open range to graze our herds. Want it all to themselves. There's been hard words spoken on both sides."

She fell silent for a bit and then squeezed his arm and turned to leave.

"I'm not used to kindness," he said quickly. "And I haven't had a meal like that for a very long time. Thank you for your hospitality, ma'am."

"You best call me Sarah," she said. "And if you want to thank us, dredge up one of your mama's Viking stories to tell at breakfast. It'll keep her memory alive."

"Some of those memories I'd just as soon leave buried," he whispered.

"You ever pick fruit, boy?" She asked with a gentle smile. "You take the softest and sweetest and leave the hard and damaged ones for the birds or to fall away. Same could be said for memories."

She left him and he slowly sat down on the side of the bed and slipped out of his jacket. He savored the old woman's words as he took off his shirt and removed his boots, his mind searching through long lost memories, hearing his mother's hushed voice echoing back, sharing old stories of red bearded men with broad swords storming tall round towers and bellowing like bulls. Unexpectedly sweet memories he now found in an unexpected place.

...

The taste of honey lingered on his lips from breakfast when he'd waved a last goodbye to Sarah and the Mueller brothers. The sun had barely cresting the low hills as he rode out, having turned down their entreaties to stay another day, his normal restlessness driving him to keep moving south. He had shared a couple of his mother's favorite stories at breakfast, and been pleased by their enthusiasm for them, although it had left him feeling melancholy. Sarah had picked up on that, and had pushed more pancakes onto his plate, drizzling sweet clover honey over them as she distracted the men with her own recollections. She had insisted on packing his saddlebags with provisions, including a loaf of sourdough bread that he could barely wedge in. Branch had given him a bottle of the liniment he'd used on Sheila and Coot gave names and directions that would take him down past most of the ranches in the area. Freeman had surprised him by handing him a letter of introduction to the Atwoods, but he was uncertain he would use it, since Saratoga Springs was further south than he intended to travel. It was Sarah who had pressed a worn gray hat into his hands, the thin brim unevenly curled on the sides, its band made of woven rawhide dark with age. She said it had belonged to her brother and she wouldn't let him refuse it, pointing silently up at the sun and fighting tears. He didn't ask her why, he had simply mumbled his grateful thanks and settled it down over his unruly hair. A soft kick and Sheila had jumped quickly, taking him away from the kindhearted Muellers.

The day warmed as he rode and he didn't push his mare, easily following Coots' directions through the undulating hills and low mountains, spotting a few herds of grazing cattle strung out across the wide prairie. He felt his muscles relax as he watched the wild grasses perform a slow moving dance with the wind that passed over them. He loved these wild open spaces and the feeling of freedom and solitude it gave him. It's where he recognized his true self.

When the sun past its peak, he became more than grateful for his new hat and stopped to let Sheila drink her fill along a wide slow moving stream bordered by bright green grasses and dotted with wildflowers. He stripped off his jacket and tied it behind the saddle before searching for something to eat in amongst the provisions Sarah had insisted he take. He tore off a hunk of the sourdough bread, and pulled out a couple of dark purple plums, groaning as their tart sweetness filled his mouth. When he finished, he refilled his canteen with water and swung back up onto Sheila, turning her south once again.

A bold stone outcropping lay ahead and when Sheila pricked her ears and raised her head, he saw five men ride out from its shadow. They spread out and rode toward him side by side, several holding rifles up where he could see them. He turned the mare to face them and waited, resting one hand on the pommel, the other hanging loosely by his sidearm. They trotted up and stopped except for one man who looked familiar to him.

"You're on Thurston land, stranger," the self appointed leader said as he rode up to him.

"Musta missed the sign, Bonner," Max quipped easily, waiting for the man to recognize him.

"Max Gentry. Thought somebody woulda killed you by now," Bonner replied, not sounding all that friendly.

"Shoot first. That's my motto," he said, his eyes flicking between the man and the other riders.

"You always was fast on the draw," he remarked coldly. "Where ya headed?"

"Heard some of the ranchers around here might be hirin'," he replied.

"Boss might be interested," Bonner said as he shoved his rifle back in its scabbard. "Could always use another gun hand. Lots of rustlers to discourage if ya git my meanin'."

Max eyed the other men, keeping his face placid, revealing nothing. They were all rough looking men, young and hard and a bit skittish from the way they nervously fingered their reins and their rifles. These men weren't typical cowboys, they were hired guns and he felt his dark side wrap around him and settle in. His fingers twitched and his eyes hardened, knowing they were taking his measure and looking for weakness, especially Bonner. The man was a sometime outlaw and known gunslinger who would shoot you at the drop of a hat and he was surprised to see him.

"I heard you got hanged," Max said with a wary smirk.

"The bastards tried, but Ol' Jim Hedges put a stop to it," he replied as he turned his horse to head back, the others filing in behind them. "He's foreman here. Rode with Quantrill's Raiders in Kansas. Mean, ornery old man. Gotta hair trigger, so watch yourself."

"What about the owner?"

"Folks call him Big Ed Thurston, but he don't like it," Bonner said. "Born some sorta nobleman in England. Never lets nobody forget it neither. Dresses like a dude and acts kinda offish like he might get the pox if he gets too close to us. Pays good though, if you do your job. Ifin you don't, better cut and run or he'll send Jim Hedges to sort ya out."

"Had much trouble to deal with?" Max asked slowly, trying to figure the situation.

"Took care of a few rustlers and skeerd off some of the locals," he replied with a smart-ass grin. "Nobody messes with Mr. Thurston."

"Thought this was open range?"

"Not in Mr. Thurston's mind."

They rode at least three miles back along a range of low hills, following the stream until they saw a large spread in a green valley where the stream widened into a small lake. There were several large white barns and a two-story house surrounded by a white fence, with smoke rising from one of the two fieldstone chimneys on either end.

"Nice spread," Max remarked as they trotted past two massive pine posts at the entrance gate that were topped with a carved sign that read Newthorn.

The four men behind them peeled off and headed toward one of the barns and a low building Max assumed was the bunkhouse. He saw several men lounging there, becoming curious as he rode past with Bonner. The front of the main house was elegant by local standards with turned posts and railings, one of the windows alone probably costing more than he had made in a year. The ornate door was richly carved, the wood varnished to a high shine. It opened as they approached to reveal two men. The stocky one was wearing a black, two gun rig and the other man was tall and broad chested with a full beard, his steely gray hair wavy and combed back from a long forehead. He was dressed in a brown tweed suit and a black, double-breasted vest with a vibrant purple cravat that looked too hot and rather formal for this time of day.

"Mr. Thurston. Hedges," Bonner greeting the men with complete deference, touching the brim of his hat as he nodded. "This here is Max Gentry. Knew him up in Montana Territory. Good with a gun and lookin' for work."

"Are you a horse thief, Mr. Gentry?" the accusatory words came out like silk, his English accent cultured and haughty, as was his manner.

"That's a hangin' offense, and I'm still here," he replied, keeping his voice even.

"That's not what I asked," the man said, sharper this time.

"Man tried to steal Sheila here once," he replied even softer than before. "I shot him."

"Did you kill him?" The man asked as he lit a long dark cigarillo.

"He appeared to be dead the last time I saw him," he said somewhat flippantly.

"Are you being facetious, Mr. Gentry?" His hazel eyes piercing in their intensity.

"I don't know what that means," he replied.

"Of course you don't," he huffed dismissively. "Let's see how good you are with a gun. Let's hope you're better with that than with your wit."

Max looked over at Bonner, who looked nervous all of a sudden.

"Leave your horse here, Gentry," Hedges growled. "Ya might not be needin' her."

Max swung down off his mare and followed Thurston and Hedges over toward the closest barn. Bonner hung back and Max got an itchy feeling at the back of his neck, his hand automatically going to his Colt. As they entered the cool shadow of the barn, the smell of urine hit him and Thurston pulled a folded handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose.

"Piss your pants, Dicky?" Hedges laughed.

The man he'd named was strung up by his wrists between two posts, his red-rimmed eyes looking out at them through the stringy hair that almost obscured his face. He'd seen angry men before, but this man looked desperate and ready to kill.

"I told ya I was just exercisin' that gol' dang horse," Dickey snarled.

"Ah...you seemed to have rediscovered your indignation, Mr. Perkins," Thurston said lightly. "Well, now you have a chance to prove yourself. Mr. Gentry here wants your job and so I am going to let you two draw down on each other. If he wins, he gets to work for me, and if you win I won't hang you."

"What the hell?" Max was stunned and not particularly happy about the turn of events.

"Dicky tried to steal one of my prized stallions, Mr. Gentry," Thurston said reasonably. "He couldn't handle the animal and ended up on his posterior not far from here. Mr. Hedges was kind enough to bring him back here for a little lesson about gratitude."

Max felt several men moved up behind him, while a couple of others moved past him to help Hedges cut the man down. Dicky angrily shoved one of the men away and then rubbed at the raw skin around his wrists and Max wondered how long he'd been tied there. The man ran a shaky hand up through his hair and Max could see deep bruising around his eyes and blood was caked around his eyes and nostrils and at the edge of his mouth.

"Give the man his gun, Mr. Hedges. With one bullet, of course," Thurston commanded, his growing enthusiasm apparent in the crispness of his tone. "Are you prepared, Mr. Gentry?"

"Do I have a choice?" He asked, his voice hard and wary.

"Not if you want to work for me," he said.

"And if I decide that I don't want to work for you?"

"You came to me," he stated. "You rode onto my private land without permission and are standing on my private estate. I doubt anyone will miss you if you refuse my little game."

"A shoot out is a game to you?" He asked softly, deciding to ignore the blatant threat.

"Very well, we'll call it a contest," the man smiled, a strange light in his eyes. "Mere semantics."

Dicky was buckling on his gun belt, looking sullen and resentful, and Max knew the man would have no qualms about killing him. Now that he had been backed into a corner, his fingers began to twitch, his mouth hardening into a tight line, as his nostrils flared wide in anticipation of the gunfight to come. He looked around until he found Bonner looking at him and the man simply shrugged his shoulders at the inevitability of the situation.

"Come now gentlemen, let us adjourn to the gun range," Thurston said magnanimously. "I'm sure everyone will want to witness this new and exciting bit of entertainment."

"Have you ever killed someone?" Max asked as the man strode by.

"That is a very personal question," He stopped to reply, his expression full of distaste.

"You just seem excited to see a man die. It made me curious," Max said, his demeanor cold and his eyes dark and dangerous.

"I enjoy a good hunt, whatever the animal," the man replied. "I doubt you would enjoy being the prey."

The man snapped his fingers and Hedges shoved Max ahead of him out of the barn and around to the far side. The wind had ceased and the sun was low, casting a glow over a stretch of ground cleared of any grasses or weeds. The far end was set with various targets and midway down the track was a tall, raised platform set with a wooden Victorian table and chair. A bottle of whiskey and a glass had been set out and Max snorted in disbelief as Thurston climbed the stairs and poured himself a drink, holding it up as if toasting the assembled men.

"Let's make this a little more interesting, shall we?" Thurston called out. "Whoever wins gets a twenty dollar gold piece and those who wish to bet on the outcome I will add another twenty to the pot."

Max felt someone close behind him as he watched the men enthusiastically calling out bets.

"Don't let Dicky fool ya," Bonner murmured next to his shoulder. "He may not look it, but he's fast and he don't play by the rules."

"What rules?"

"This ain't gonna be your typical gunfight," he said. "Ya start out with your backs to each other and Thurston will call out the paces. When he gets to ten, ya turn and draw. Dicky won't wait for that."

"Why you tellin' me this?" Max asked as he checked his Colt.

"Cause Dicky's more a pain in the ass than you," he said, with a harsh laugh.

"You put a bet down on me didn't you?"

"I gave you an edge," he growled. "You live and I win."

"Mr. Hedges, let's have our contestants," Thurston commanded.

The men behind him laughed and good-naturedly shoved him toward the platform, and his anger flared at the insanity of the situation. He wanted to be no one's executioner, but he also had no intention of dying here, so he would do what he'd always done...survive.

It happened as Bonner had said and he could feel his heart beating in his chest, his mouth suddenly dry as he stood back to back with a man who had the same desire to live as he did. The smell of the man's sweat was sharp and he could hear his labored breathing, the tension blocking out the yells of encouragement from the men that lined the dusty track. He shut down all emotion, his gun hand quivering in anticipation and then going stone still as the paces were called out. Not being able to look into the eyes of the man who sought to kill him was frustrating. He couldn't read the man, couldn't watch for telltale signs that might signal when he would make his move. If Bonner hadn't warned him he would have followed the rules of this disturbing and unwarranted 'game' and it could have meant his end.

His muscles coiled when the count reached eight, and then loosened as he tried to anticipated his opponent's next move. His attuned senses caught the soft sound of scraped gravel as Dicky wheeled at the count of nine, and Max threw himself to the side, tumbling onto his back at the loud report of a pistol, rolling over to face the man with his gun spitting fire. A huffing scream filled his ears as his bullet caught Dicky in the upper shoulder, spinning him to the ground. There was the hush of silence before sound came rushing back and he could hear the mumbled curses of those who had lost their bets. Bonner offered him a hand up and he holstered his gun and stooped to pick up his hat, using it to slap the dust from his pants. When he stood to his full height, he was face to face with Edward Thurston.

"I like an inventive man, Mr. Gentry," he said with an arrogant smirk. "Now finish the job."

"I'm done. You want him dead? Kill him yourself," Max stood his ground, waiting for the man's response, his hand poised over his still warm Colt.

...

...


	6. Chapter 6

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 6_

...

Thurston's eyes narrowed as he stared at Max. He didn't flinch, staring back at the pompous ass, his eyes cold and his jaw muscles flexing as he waited. It wasn't his first gunfight. Those were usually personal, or because someone challenged him. This had been something else, something he felt no connection to except to stay alive. This had been on a whim by a man he'd been warned about by good people. He could kill him right now, if he'd been that kind of man, but he wasn't a killer no matter what some thought, and it would undoubtedly cost him his life. This man, on the other hand, gave no thought to what anyone else thought or wanted, probably not even God, and that made him dangerous.

"You don't like taking orders do you, Mr. Gentry?" Thurston finally said.

"I don't work for you, Mr. Thurston," he replied.

"If you did would you kill someone if I ordered you to?"

"Only if I had cause," he replied. "And only if there was no other way."

"Ahh...a principled man," Thurston said with a brief smile of recognition. "Remarkable. Out here in the middle of nowhere, in a backward, uncivilized country, I find a man with a code of honor."

Max started to back away, intent on leaving, preferably without getting shot. He looked sharply at Hedges and the men surrounding him, gauging his chances of riding out without having to fight for his life again.

"I find you interesting, Mr. Gentry, and I'm curious as to why you spared Mr. Perkins' life. He's a horse thief, and he was going to kill you," Thurston said, his face open and quizzical.

"I have no quarrel with the man," Max replied. "He didn't steal my horse and he had no choice. The same as you gave me. He was fighting for his life. I had no need to take it."

"You're correct. He didn't steal your horse, he stole mine," Thurston said bitterly. "Mr. Hedges, if you will."

Hedges pulled his pistol and shot Dicky in the head.

"Now, shall we have a drink Mr. Gentry? I believe I might enjoy having a man like you around," Thurston said as he flipped a twenty dollar gold piece at him.

He wasn't sure why he followed. He didn't like him or trust him and he'd just seen the consequences if he crossed the man, but he needed a job and it looked as if the pay might be good. He didn't appear crazy, but he was cold blooded and just might be the devil Coot believed him to be. He had worked for similar men, the kind that we're building the west, the kind that let nothing stand in their way of getting what they wanted. They had wanted this territory and with the help of the government had taken it from its native people. There were railroads now and large cattle ranches and towns were sprouting up all over the plains, with lawmen and federal troops to keep the fragile peace. His mind turned to the Arapaho. They had fought for their land and lost, confined now to just a tiny part of their traditional hunting grounds. Their time was finished and it saddened him, but that was life and life was hard. Only hard men survived.

He pulled his worn hat from his head when he entered the stuffy interior of Thurston's ranch house, unsure why he was surprised at the opulence. Victorian furniture crowded the main room, and a large painting of a man in a bright red tunic wearing a powered wig and holding the reins of a magnificent white stallion hung on the wall above a large fireplace.

"One of my many illustrious ancestors," Thurston remarked as he poured amber liquid from a cut glass decanter. "A field commander in the British army during your revolution. He was a Viscount, but you have no idea what that means do you, Mr. Gentry?"

"I don't know what that is, but I do know we won," he said, flashing a quick smile.

"Yes you did, which bothers my grandfather to this day. He called me a traitor just for coming here to hunt. A totally unbearable man," he replied after swallowing half of his drink. "So, Mr. Gentry, you do know a bit of history. Were you schooled?"

"My mother taught me to read and do my numbers," he answered reluctantly. "Had time to read a few books when I was laid up in Wichita in '71."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Not really."

"Come now, Mr. Gentry. The thought that you found books to read at all is difficult to believe," he said.

"You don't think much of Americans do you?" Max was already sure of the answer.

"What did you read, and how were you injured?...I'm simply curious," his tone and demeanor growing insistent.

"I worked the remuda for a rancher named Donaldson," he shared. "A few Comanches made a try for it. I took an arrow in the leg, but they didn't get the horses. He was grateful. Lent me some of his books while I recovered."

"What kind of books?" His tone was condescending so Max took great pleasure in his reply.

"A small book of poems by Tennyson, Shakespeare's plays and one about the history of the world," he said with fond memories.

"Do you remember more than that the colonies succeeded in winning their rebellion against Britain?" Sounding doubtful even as he asked.

"'To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield'...from Ulysses by Alfred, Lord Tennyson," he said softly, the words still a powerful philosophy for him. "And...'For always roaming with a hungry heart'."

"You are a surprising man, Mr. Gentry," he replied, something wary now in his eyes. "And Shakespeare?"

"Didn't take me long to figure out the man liked a lot of blood in his plays," he answered. "He would have liked the west. Lots of drama and bloodshed."

"I think your right," he replied. "No holds barred out here. It's every man for himself, and I rather like those odds."

"Is that why you came here?" He asked. "To take what you could?"

"I came because England was becoming full of radicals ranting about the rights of man," he said as he stared up at his impressive looking ancestor. "And it was boring, unless one enjoys politics, which I hold no fondness for. Fox hunting was becoming too tame a pursuit for a man such as myself, so I came here initially to shoot big game. Here I'll show you."

He seemed quite enthusiastic as he led the way into a large room that looked out on a corral with grazing mares and yearlings. Thurston swept his arm in a wide circle and Max was stunned at the number of mounted trophies that adorned the dark green walls. He paused in front of a massive buffalo head that dominated the end wall, thinking once again of Little Shield and Hand.

"What did you do with the meat?" Max asked.

"Left it, of course. Ghastly tasting. Unfit for a refined gentleman," he replied breezily. "I only wanted the biggest and best head."

"How many animals did you kill?" He asked in a low voice.

"There were six of us and I think we killed fifty or sixty before we tired," he said. "That was seven or eight years ago. Not many of the beasts left now."

"What a waste," Max muttered under his breath, remembering the hunger his Arapaho friends lived with.

"Come work for me Mr. Gentry. I'm quite sure I can pay you more than the other so called ranchers around here," Thurston said with confidence. "We can continue our conversation about books. I doubt if Mr. Hedges can even read, and as for Bonner, I'm not sure he even knows what a book is."

"What kind of job you offering?" Max asked.

"My operation here is just in the early stages," he explained. "I intend to increase my holdings and I need to protect what I already have from those who want to take it from me."

"Sorta what Hedges and Bonner do," he responded.

"Discouraging rustlers and interlopers would be your primary focus," he said imperiously. "Take the offer Mr. Gentry or get out. I have no time for indecision."

"Okay."

"That odd little American word for yes," the man replied arrogantly. "Check in with Hedges on your accommodations and assignments."

He strode from the room without a backward glance and Max was left staring at a room full of the heads of dead animals shot down for fun and self-aggrandizement. The animals had no other value to him. Their meat left to rot on the plains without thought. He wondered who he showed them off to. He seemed to believe everyone was beneath him, so he wondered who his friends might be or if he even had any.

"Oh buddy, what have you gone an gotten yourself into this time," he muttered softly.

He took a moment to look out at the grazing mares, then settled his hat down on his tangled hair and walked resolutely from the room and out the front door.

...

She heard Sam laugh softly as she walked once again along the line of glass jars filled with mouthwatering sweets. He liked making fun of her about her obsession with candy. Both of them did, but she didn't snap at him as she used to, having grown a little fond of both of them after a week on the trail and another here in town. They had discovered her sweet tooth their first day in Saratoga Springs, and had teased her about it ever since.

"You already tried all the different kinds," Callen said as he peered in at the multi-colorful peppermint sticks.

"You don't have to wait," MacKenzie said. "I just can't decide what I want just yet. The lemon drops were good, but not sweet enough and the horehound is a bit bitter. I might get one or two of the marzipan and some candy corn."

"Get the sugar plums," Sam said. "They're sweet and crunchy."

MacKenzie smiled and caught the eye of the proprietor Mr. Huber, a Swiss immigrant who was difficult to understand, but who had no problem with Sam being in his store. She had come in so often that he usually let her have a free sample if she had trouble deciding.

"I have new sweet," he said with a heavy guttural accent, his face lighting up with a huge smile. "Caramels from Philadelphia. Came on train yesterday."

She thought he loved sweets almost as much as she did and stood to take a look when the door slammed open and three men walked in, dusty and rough looking. The proprietor took a step back and his smile faded instantly, replaced by nervous swallowing as if he couldn't breathe. She sensed a coiled tension building in Marshal Callen and Sam's jaw tightened, both men no longer smiling.

The leader was stocky with dark eyes that roved over the store from beneath a wide brimmed hat with the front rolled back off his face. He was clean-shaven and his high cheekbones looked weather worn, and greasy brown hair hung to his shoulders. He was older, maybe in his late forties and she thought he looked familiar. She quickly noticed the two guns he wore low on his hips and how his fingers constantly toyed with the hammer of one of the pistols. The man behind him slouched as he ambled over to look at the hats, but the younger man who hung back by the door was looking straight at her, his striking blue eyes disconcerting as was the slight smile on his face. He wore a fringed buckskin jacket over an unbuttoned black vest and a black flowered shirt and when he removed his hat, he ran a hand through a tangled mass of blond hair, his eyes never leaving her face. She had trouble looking away from him, which surprised and irritated her at the same time. She thought he looked a little too cocksure for her taste as his grin widened, but she couldn't deny the look of him made her heart race a little, in spite of the scruffy beard.

"Get a move on Huber. Mr. Thurston sent us for that special item he ordered," the older man called out rudely. "We don't got all day."

The proprietor nodded rapidly and scooted toward the storeroom, and the man followed his progress until he was gone. Turning his attention to the candy, he walked over and opened one of the jars, digging his grubby hand in to grab a handful of butterscotch drops.

"Best pay for those before you leave," Callen told him.

"Whadda you care?"

"U.S. Marshal Callen. Might be kinda embarrassing to be arrested for stealin' penny candy," he said. "You gotta name?"

"Jim Hedges. Here on business for my boss, Big Ed Thurston," the man growled, his eyes getting wide when he looked at the badge on Sam's chest. "He really a marshal?"

"He can speak for himself. Knows English and everything," Callen responded. "Doncha Sam?"

"Last I checked I could even read and write," Sam said without a smile.

"He's got you beat there, Hedges," the blond said as he leaned nonchalantly on the counter beside MacKenzie.

"And what's your name?" Callen asked, turning to assess the man.

"You keepin' a journal or something?" The blond asked softly, even though his eyes turned an icy blue.

"You on the run or somethin'?" Sam's mimicking question coming out hard and sharp.

"Don't you talk to no white man like that, boy," Hedges snarled.

The tall blond stepped forward to place a restraining hand on Hedges' chest, and then cut in front of him to face the two lawmen. "If I was runnin' from the law, I don't think I'd be ridin' into town or talkin' to two U.S. Marshals. I'd much rather be talkin' to this pretty girl here."

MacKenzie shot him a dark look, but before she could respond, Hedges grabbed a handful of the man's jacket and shoved him aside, stepping aggressively toward Sam. MacKenzie had her knife out and under his chin before anyone could say a word.

"Back off," she said firmly, and Hedges' face turned rigid and pale.

In an instant Sam had his gun pointing at the man by the hats and Callen had his inches from the blue-eyed man's face.

"You want to tell me your name now?" Callen asked.

"Don't get jumpy, friend. Name's Max Gentry. The ugly guy needing a new hat is Bonner. Not sure he has a first."

"I've heard your name before," MacKenzie said, glancing quickly in the scruffy man's direction.

"Does he have a price on his head?" Sam asked.

"Why would she know that?" Max asked. "She a marshal too?"

"I'm a bounty hunter," she snapped.

"Now I heard everything," Bonner said, his hands still raised. "You can take me in anytime, sweetheart."

"Don't do that, miss," Max laughed. "He hasn't bathed in a couple of weeks."

"Please gentleman, I want no trouble," Mr. Huber pleaded nervously, holding a wrapped package in his shaking hands.

Callen slowly lowered his gun and Sam followed, but MacKenzie held her ground, unwilling to let the glowering man in front of her go.

"She always this scary?" Max Gentry asked.

"You should see her fight," Callen said, putting a hand on her arm until she lowered the knife.

"Maybe another day. Hedges and Bonner here need a drink. Doncha boys?" Max said evenly. "Too many days cooped up with ugly cowpokes without a lick of fun or whiskey."

"Got that right," Bonner said warily. "Whadda ya say, Hedges? I'm feeling a mite dry."

Hedges blinked slowly and stepped over to yank the package out of the proprietor's hands. MacKenzie still held the knife by her side, watching as the three men made their way to the door. The blond stopped just short of the leader and looked back at her, unaware that Hedges had turned around to face him. The vicious punch caught him high on the cheek, sending him crashing into a table full of shaving cups and jars of fruit preserves. Hedges stood over him as he lay stunned on the floor.

"Don't ever touch me or git in my way again," his deep voice low and mean. "I handle my own business. You stay out of it, ya hear, or I'll crack your skull open."

He walked out and slammed the door behind him as the blond man sat up and hung his head between his knees. Sam walked over and offered him a hand up, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Not the kinda man to be on the wrong side of," Sam said.

"Don't think there's a right side," came the muffled response.

MacKenzie's stomach had dropped when he'd been hit, but now she felt as if she was rooted to the floor, unable to say or do anything as Callen joined Sam in helping the man to his feet. He pushed free of them almost immediately and she saw distrust and wariness in his eyes, making her try and remember where she'd heard his name before.

"You know a man named Black Jack Wallace?" She asked loudly when it came to her.

"The Texas Ranger?" Callen asked. "I rode with him for a couple of weeks. Tough lawman. Mean. Quick tempered in a cold kinda way."

"The man with the bushy mustache and the tall black derby?" Sam asked. "Likes to gamble?"

"That'd be him," Callen confirmed.

"I think our friend knows him too," she said, finally moving to confront him.

"That true?" Sam asked as Max tenderly fingered the blossoming bruise below his eye.

"You folks really like to ask questions," he responded quietly, working his jaw as if he had no feeling in it.

"And you really don't seem to like answering them," Callen commented tightly.

"If the right side of my face wasn't on fire, I might give you an answer," he said, closing his eyes and drawing in a hissed breath.

"How do you know him MacKenzie?" Sam asked.

Gentry opened his eyes when he heard her name, laughter dancing there and unnerving her a bit. He tried to stand up straight, but the movement unbalanced him and he stumbled into a barrel of dried beans, making Mr. Huber rush over to make sure the man didn't do anymore damage.

"Kinda clumsy there, mister," she said. "Better sit down."

"You like givin' orders don't you?" He said with a weary smile that made her cheeks flush.

"Black Jack Wallace is lookin' for you," she replied confidently, knowing she had him now. "Told me you killed his brother."

The warm smile that had graced his face moments before disappeared as if behind a dark cloud. Even his eyes turned a shade darker, his nostrils flaring as his hand went to his pistol.

"I wouldn't," Callen warned.

"Your not me," Max snarled back.

Sam shoved him roughly against the wall and she saw his anger flare as he pushed back against him. Sam was a big man, so it wasn't a real contest, but she could see that he didn't seem to care. Callen relieved him of his pistol and that infuriated him, making him fight even harder until Sam was forced to slam him into the wall to get his attention.

"Don't make me hit you," Sam cautioned.

"Go to hell," his eyes still wild.

"Is he wanted by the Rangers?" Callen asked.

"No record of that," she answered as she watched the man now refusing to look at any of them.

"You working for that bastard?" He asked, sounding out of breath.

"Watch your mouth in front of the lady," Callen snapped.

"Seriously? She don't act like a lady," he said, snorting out a harsh laugh. "She's like every other bounty hunter...only interested in the money, not the truth."

She pushed around Sam and grabbed the front of his jacket, wanting very badly to hit him, but he suddenly grinned cockily at her, and she shoved away from him. He was really starting to annoy her, and his blatant disrespect made her wish he had been wanted by the law so she could knock that smile off his face and tie him face down across a horse.

"You want to tell us your side of the story?" Sam asked.

"Why should I? You won't believe me anyway," he said quietly, suddenly looking resigned and closed off.

"Try us," Callen said.

"His brother ambushed me. Tried to steal my mare," he recounted without inflection as he stared at the floor. "I shot him."

"That's not much information," MacKenzie said, dissatisfied and suspicious.

"Want me to show you the scar on my back where he shot me off my horse?" He asked defiantly. "Or would that be too intimate for the 'lady' to handle."

"Too bad he wasn't a better shot," she snapped angrily.

She saw something change in him when she said that, a wounded look passing like a shadow behind his pale blue eyes. Even Callen looked at her oddly and Sam let him go. She hadn't really meant to say that, but she never backed down, especially from someone like him.

He bent down and picked up his hat from the floor and shoved it on his head. With his back to her he asked a solemn question.

"If you don't mind me askin', when did you talk to him," his voice soft and polite, but distant.

"Couple of months ago. Up in Butte, Montana Territory," she replied.

"And he called me Max Gentry?"

"Isn't that your name?" Callen asked.

"Is now."

"What was it before?" She asked, wanting to know for some reason.

"Why? So you can look up old wanted posters?" He turned and looked at her then.

"Thought you weren't wanted," Callen said quietly as he hesitated to hand him back his gun.

"I'm not."

When Callen returned his gun, he turned away from them and went over to the counter where Mr. Huber waited, pulling out a twenty dollar gold piece and placing it on the counter.

"For the mess I made," he said and started to leave, but stopped and turned back.

"What's your most expensive candy?" He asked.

"I have caramels from Philadelphia. Very sweet. Very, very good," the little man said proudly.

"The gold piece oughta cover a dozen of those too, yeah?" He said, his smile briefly flickering.

The little man nodded and hurriedly put the candies in a paper sack and handed it to him. He touched the edge of his hat politely and then walked back past them, fishing for one of the sweets as he paused in front of the door. He popped one into his mouth, and hummed at the apparent sweetness and MacKenzie couldn't help that her mouth watered instantly even as her eyes flashed with annoyance.

"Martin Agnar Deeks," he said. "In case you want to check up on me."

"Agnar?" Callen smirked. "Really?"

"My ancestors were Vikings," flashing a grin as he pulled his hat down low over his eyes. "My mama loved those old Norse sagas."

"That the name you were born with?" Sam asked with a slight smile.

"No, but it's the one I left home with."

He pulled the door open, but before he walked out, he turned to MacKenzie and handed her the bag of candy.

"You could use some sweetenin' up, 'lady'," he said, his cocky grin fading almost before it appeared.

If Callen hadn't grabbed her arm she would have hit him this time. Her anger still roaring as she watched him climb onto a big bay horse and turn toward the edge of town.

"He's in real trouble if Black Jack Wallace is after him," Callen remarked. "That man always skated on the edge of the law, so he won't be too concerned about making it a fair fight."

"So you believed him?" MacKenzie asked.

"You still upset he won your little argument?" He replied.

"It wasn't an argument and I didn't lose," she sputtered.

"I think he likes you," Sam offered.

"Why do you say that?" She was flustered by the comment and was sure her face had gotten red as she protested.

"He did give you candy," Callen smirked.

"I think that was to make a point, G," Sam reasoned.

"You two don't know what your talking about," pouting as she rummaged in the sack for a caramel. "He's probably a hired gun and I'll bet he's wanted somewhere. Why else would he change his name so many times?"

"Lots of men change their names when they come out here," Callen said. "I'm more interested in Hedges. We mighta had to tangle with that one if Gentry hadn't intervened."

"You mean Agnar?" Sam laughed.

"Well, I'm not convinced Martin Agnar Deeks turned Max Gentry is a good guy," MacKenzie said confidently. "I'll telegraph some lawmen I know, see if I can find out a little more about him."

"Sounds like he made an impression on you," Callen said, joining Sam in a mocking smile.

"I don't trust as easily as you do," she replied.

"You don't trust anyone at all, from what I can tell," Sam said.

"I trust you two," she said, offering them a caramel.

"Well, 'lady', while you have your mind on Agnar, we're gonna find out a bit more about Jim Hedges," Callen said.

"He is a very bad man," Mr. Huber suddenly said. "Some people believe he killed the son of a local rancher. No one can prove it, but he has done many things to make us afraid of him."

"What rancher?" Sam asked.

"George Atwood," he replied. "Has a small spread on Little Jack Creek. He is good man. His wife Josie made these preserves. His younger boy was in the army, I think. Cavalry. Yes, cavalry. He and George run a small herd of cattle and breed horses."

"Why do people think Hedges did it?" Callen asked.

"His boss, Mr. Thurston is joining with other big landowners. They want to control open range. There is war coming over that."

"That's what we heard," Sam looked hard at Callen. "We need to look into that killin' G."

"You be careful," Mr. Huber warned. "That man hates the black people. He brags about how much he likes to shoot them."

"I can take care of myself," Sam said as he stood to his full height, his badge shiny against his dark clothing.

"Thanks for the warning though," Callen said.

"The blond man has made an enemy. You have too, Miss MacKenzie," he said sadly, and resumed cleaning up the mess on his floor. "That man Hedges does not forget an insult."

...

He had never tasted a caramel before and now that flavor would forever remind him of the beautiful and dangerous bounty hunter named MacKenzie. He didn't trust her and she sure as hell didn't trust or believe him, but he couldn't deny he was attracted to her as dangerous as that might be for him. That she knew Black Jack Wallace made him leery, but if he had the chance to speak with her again he probably would. He never had been particularly smart about women, liking most of them and enjoying the comfort they brought him. But, there was nothing comforting about the MacKenzie woman at all. She was prickly and pushy and aggravating and like no one he had ever met. A woman bounty hunter? That had surprised the hell out of him. She was tough. No question. And beautiful. No question there either. No question he was interested, and very curious if there was a softer side to that hard exterior. She certainly would be a challenge, especially if she was working with Black Jack Wallace, who had somehow discovered the name he rode with now. He suddenly felt exposed and looked over the rolling hills around him, wondering if the man had ridden in with her and he searched for any telltale sign of an ambush. He wouldn't put it past the man to dry-gulch him.

The sharp report of a rifle made him instinctively duck, dropping almost to the side of his horse. Realizing the sound of gunfire was coming from over the rise in front of him, he urged Sheila on, coming up behind a rocky crag at the top. Below him was a small herd of black cattle, Angus if he remembered right, a breed new to the country. There was a skirmish going on between a man stretched out behind a downed horse firing on six men circling the herd. Their faces were covered by bandanas and they quickly left the cattle and suddenly charged the man's position, their wild cries floating upwards on the wind.

"Looks like he could use a little help, ol' girl," Max said softly as he pulled his rifle and sited the lead rider, only to see him jerk backwards off his horse.

The other five never broke stride, so he took aim at the next man in line, knocking him off his horse and making a couple of the men ease up on their charge. He glanced quickly at the downed man, who stopped firing and looked his way. It was a mistake. One of the rustlers' bullets caught him in the shoulder and he saw him fall back, his rifle dropping by his side. Max kicked his mare and charged down the slope firing, taking down another as the remaining men turned their attention towards him. He was grateful for the repeating Winchester in his hands, the rustlers' pistols no match for the power and accuracy of his rifle. They realized it too, and turned their horses and ran, and he followed, galloping after them until they disappeared over a low hill. He pulled up and paused briefly before walking Sheila slowly up to the ridgeline, ready in case they were waiting for him. He saw nothing but their retreating dust as they made their getaway.

He rode back through the milling cattle, now scattering restlessly over the small valley, their bawling disturbing until he heard the high-pitched scream of an animal in pain. The cowboy was standing over his fallen horse trying to get his pistol out of his holster with his left hand. Blood darkened the sleeve of his right arm and seeped from an open wound in his shoulder. The man's bare head hung low as he stared at the horse until he heard his approach. He reacted quickly for a wounded man, fumbling for his pistol until Max spread his arms wide to show he meant him no harm.

"The bastards," he said breathlessly, looking up at him with glistening tears of raw anger.

Max climbed down and turned to quiet Sheila, who was growing skittish as the dying horse groaned out another scream.

"I can't get my gun out," the man mumbled, sounding as if he was talking to himself. "He's suffering, dammit."

Max pulled his pistol and offered it to the man, but he only shook his head and suddenly collapsed to his knees.

"My hand is shaking too much," he whispered and then looked up at him, squinting into the sun. "Will you do it? I don't want him to suffer."

Max nodded, swearing solemnly and then shot the horse in the head, stilling his final scream.

"Thanks," the word spoken without energy and filled with sadness.

"I'm guessin' this is your herd," Max said quietly. "How close is your place?"

"A few of miles south of here," he answered as he tried to stand.

The man managed to stumble to his feet, but he swayed dangerously and Max got an arm under his good shoulder before he could fall.

"Lost my hat," he said, slurring the words and then grinned. "I sound drunk."

"You're losing a fair amount of blood," Max said. "Lean against Sheila and let me have a look."

A shock of brown hair dropped over the cowboy's eyes as he slumped against the big mare, moaning as he grabbed the pommel of Sheila's saddle. Max quickly removed his bandana and stuffed it into the wound, surprised when the man barely grunted.

"You're pretty damn tough," he said, watching the man's skin pale as he worked. "Can you sit a horse?"

"Are there cows in Texas?" The man said as he looked at him with dark brown eyes. "Who the blazes are you anyway?"

"Call me Max," he replied. "Wanna tell me yours? Since I saved your life and all."

"I coulda taken 'em if you hadn't distracted me," he said.

"You shouldn't have looked my way. Admit it. You made a mistake."

"Did not," the man said sharply. "The bastard got in a lucky shot."

"You're full of horse shit," Max grinned.

"Usually covered in it," he replied, his voice weak and listless.

"Gonna tell me your name before you pass out?" Max asked as he helped the man up onto Sheila's back.

"Who says I'm going to?"

"You are a stubborn sonofabitch," Max laughed as the man hunched over the mare's mane, his face now clammy with sweat. "Best give me directions or you're gonna have me wandering all over hell and back."

"Head south till to make the creek," he mumbled as he tried to sit back up. "Follow it. You'll see a grove of cottonwoods and a barn."

Max swung up behind him, and Sheila groaned and looked back at him, giving him what he thought was a resentful look at the added weight. He clucked for her to move and she groaned again, but started off at a slow walk. Max got an arm around the man's middle, not wanting him to tumble off, knowing it would be hell getting him back up. The cowboy mumbled something and slumped back against him and then jerked awake, seeming confused.

"Christopher? They shot my horse, Chris."

"I'm not him, friend," he said gently.

"What's your name again?"

"Ah hell, call me Deeks," thinking he wouldn't remember either name he'd given him.

"Good to meet ya, brother. I'm Joe Atwood."

...

...


	7. Chapter 7

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 7_

...

He pulled Sheila up at the top of an arroyo, sighing wearily as he looked down on what he hoped was Little Jack Creek. The land was lush and green on either side with a meandering woodland of aspen trees that was spotted with tall, dark pines. He adjusted his hold on the unconscious man slumped over his arms, easing him back against his chest as he urged Sheila down the dry slope. He could hear the sound of the water and the mare pricked her ears and snorted. She was thirsty, same as him. The wounded man was starting to mumble again, and Max wondered once again why he had intervened in the whole affair in the first place. Now he was stuck with taking another man back to his family.

"This is gettin' old Sheila," he muttered as he guided her down to level ground. "You shouldn't have encouraged me."

The horse stopped and swung her head back and snorted, undoubtedly in disgust that he was blaming her like he always did.

"Are we home?" The man's slurred words were full of pain and he shushed him and kicked the mare to get her moving again.

A narrow path followed the winding creek, and he unexpectedly found himself smiling as birds flitted over the creek and sang loudly from their hidden perches in the aspens. It was beautiful land and he let out a sigh as his muscles gradually loosened, although his arm was growing tired from holding the man. He was dead weight now, his fevered murmurings making Max jumpy and concerned.

"You better not die on me, friend," he warned the man. "I went to a lot of trouble for you. Coulda gotten killed savin' your ass."

"You always complain this much?" His voice was just a whisper, but he could still hear the irritation in it and it made him grin at the man's cockiness

"Thought you passed out," he replied, feeling a little bit of relief.

"I'd get more rest if you didn't talk to your horse so much."

"Now who's complainin'?" Max said as Sheila paused for a long drink in the shallows.

"Cross here," he whispered. "Ranch is around that next bend."

It was all the man could manage and he slumped back, his head lolling on his chest as his breathing began to grow ragged.

"Move it Sheila," he urged. "This fella needs to get home."

He noticed a spiraling trail of smoke rising just beyond the trees, and urged Sheila into a slow canter. Coming around a stand of birch trees, a long meadow full of wild lupine spread out in front of him, leading to a fence line and a low slung barn tucked under huge old cottonwood trees. A small cabin stood to the left, smoke from the stone chimney drifting out high over the corral between them. Several horses stood along the far fence watching an older man shoeing a horse next to the barn. The horses caught each other's scent and Sheila answered their calls. The man let the horse's leg down, and ran a hand over the animal's rump as he looked his way, shielding his eyes from the low sun. Max slowed Sheila as he made his way through the meadow, shouting out a hello, wanting to show he was friendly in case the old rancher decided to shoot before asking questions.

"Got a wounded man here," he shouted as he got closer. "His name's Joe Atwood."

The man shouted toward the house and then swung the gate open and started running towards him. They met not far from the fence, and he could see tears in the man's eyes as he reached up toward the man in his arms. He was tall and rugged, his hair almost gray and his face weathered and beardless.

"Might be best if I take him right up to the house," Max said. "He's too weak to walk and too damn big to carry."

"Where'd ya find my boy?" The old man asked, his voice gruff and breaking at the end.

"He was fightin' off some rustlers when I got there," Max replied, noticing the way the man never lost touch with his son, his big hand gently squeezing his leg as he walked beside them up to the house.

A small woman with curly auburn hair stood silently on the porch as they approached, her hands twisting in her apron. She wasn't crying and he saw anger in her eyes until she saw all the blood. She cried out in anguish then and rushed down the stairs as he eased Joe Atwood down into his father's arms.

"Caught a bullet in the shoulder," he told them as he climbed down. "Went all the way through."

The two said nothing in reply, just hovered over the wounded man until his father looked up and asked him to help get him in the house. He nodded and once again got an arm under his left shoulder and between them they dragged him toward the porch.

"Are we home?" Joe asked, his question ending in a hiss of pain.

"I got you, son," the old man said as they struggled to get him up the stairs.

"Chris saved me, Dad," he whispered, causing his father to shoot Max a startled look.

"He's feverish. Out of his head sometimes," Max said. "Who's Chris? Keeps callin' me that."

"Christopher was his brother," the woman said as she opened the door.

It was dim and overly warm inside, the furnishings spare and some of the tables looked handmade. The fireplace was made of rough fieldstone and a comforting fire glowed there, the smell of pinewood mixing with the aroma of roasted beef that wafted out of the kitchen, reminding him of his hunger. A small single bed rested along the wall by the fireplace and the woman rushed ahead and quickly pulled off a colorful quilt and a grey blanket. He helped them sit the wounded man down and then stood back and watched as they stripped his bloody shirt off.

"How many were there?" His father asked as he eased him down and quickly covered him with the blanket and quilt.

"Counted six," Max replied. "They shot his horse out from under him."

He saw a glaze of raw anger in the man's eyes at that, his big hands trembling as he turned back to his son. His mother, he assumed, pushed past him and grabbed a kettle from the iron stove and poured steaming hot water into a tin basin, snatching a handful of sackcloth towels before hurrying back. He felt very weary now that his part was done, but lingered, touched by the care these two people were showing their son. When the wounded man opened his eyes, he could practically feel their relief as he smiled up at them and whispered an apology. They were so gentle, even the father, lifting his son's head to help him drink a little water, and then wiping the runoff away with a calloused thumb. His mother worked quickly, cleaning the wound expertly before pulling down a tin with a large needle and thread.

"You know how to stitch up a wound?" He couldn't help but ask.

"Long way from town," she replied. "With two sons and a husband, what with them gettin' kicked by horses and whatnot, it was a needed skill to learn."

"Looks like Josie might need to put a couple a stitches in that cut you got," the old man said, pointing at his face.

"No need, mister," he assured him.

"Call me George," he replied. "Sorry, son. Didn't get your name."

"Deeks. His name's Deeks," Joe said softly. "Or Max."

"Which is it, young man?" Josie asked, looking sharply at him.

"Max," he replied. "Not sure who Deeks is."

"Now who's full of horse shit," Joe whispered. "You saved my bony butt, so I sure as hell can remember your name."

"Told you he was feverish," Max said with a quick grin.

"Well whatever you call yourself, thank you," George said softly, nothing but kindness on his face.

"No need," he said shyly. "Just passin' by."

"I'd be dead if you hadn't joined the fight," Joe's words ending in a sharp intake of breath as his mother rolled him over onto his side and began to clean and then stitch the ugly wound in his back.

Joe's father placed a hand on his son's head, his fingers gently entwining in his hair as he supported his back. Max couldn't take his eyes off the big man, his gentle treatment of his son creating a deep longing and leaving him melancholy and slightly uncomfortable. He didn't usually give in to his emotions, but in the past month he had been assaulted by them a couple of times and it bothered him. He hated giving into them; hated the weakness they exposed. He thought he had left it all behind him when he'd struck out on his own. He'd been hardened early by his own father, whatever gentleness he'd learned from his mother, beaten out of him until the day he'd shot the bastard. The few years afterwards were easily the happiest he could remember, and he had found his natural humor again.

Joe Atwood's mother looked nothing like his own, but they were both strong, resourceful women, kind and caring, the only difference was that Joe's mother had found a good man. Of that he had no doubt. His had the misfortune of discovering that the man she'd married was slowly spiraling into darkness, growing bitter and angry and believing life had cheated him. His mother was strong and full of kindness too, but it wasn't enough to protect him from the despair his father alleviated by beating the devil out of both of them. That life had left her almost paralyzed with uncertainty and fear, and him seeking escape by hiding behind a blithe facade that only increased his father's rage. He'd thought they were free after they left Bodie and his wounded father behind, but it only lasted three years until the bastard found them in Mariposa. He hadn't been there to stop him that day, and the guilt still clung to him like a shroud.

"I'll be going now," he said quickly, eager to run from his memories and from the goodness he saw playing out before him. It was too painful to watch.

"Surely you can stay for supper," Josie said, looking up briefly before returning to tie off the final stitch in her son's back. "I could try and get some of that blood outa your pretty jacket."

"It'll be dark when I get back if I don't leave now," he explained, offering a shy grin at her comment.

"I'll walk you out," George said.

The air had grown cool and he hadn't realized how late it was, silently berating himself for not leaving sooner. Hedges would come at him hard for returning so late, and he was already on his bad side.

"You recognize any of those men?" George asked.

"Had their faces covered," he replied. "Cowards most likely, to shoot a horse out from under a man."

"How many you take down?"

"Your son got one before they shot him," he said quietly. "I killed two and think I winged another, but that's hard to say. Didn't follow 'em far when they took off. Thought I'd see to your son. Didn't know if he was still alive."

"We can never repay you for what you done," George voice was husky with emotion as he stroked Sheila's shoulder. "We lost his brother not too long ago. Shot down out there just like Joe, 'cept no one came to help him. Joe found him. Tore the boy up."

"I heard the story from the Muellers," Max said quietly. "Said I should look you up."

"We're you headin' our way?"

"No. Just took the long way back from town to the ranch I'm workin'," he said.

"Hope it ain't far. It'll be dark soon," George said. "You're welcome to spend the night, boy."

"Better not. I'm already in trouble with the foreman," he said as he mounted up.

"Where you workin'?"

"Newthorn," he replied, curious as to what his response would be.

"You ride for Jim Thurston?"

There was a subtle hardening of the old man's jawline, and his calloused hands gripped into fists, his eyes narrowing as he searched his face. The kind and gentle man was transformed into one who now looked quite formidable, his dark brown eyes quietly assessing him. He felt inexplicably saddened by the man's sudden doubt about his character, and wilted a little inside as the man's strong gaze bore into him. He saw the suspicion and it disheartened him, although he didn't blame the man.

"Your not the sort of man he usually hires," he finally said.

"You don't know anything about me," he replied.

"How long did you think about it before you took on the rustlers tryin' to kill my son?"

"It wasn't a fair fight," he said.

"How long, boy?"

"They were closing on him fast," he replied softly. "Didn't think about it, just thought I should even the odds."

"You think any of those men workin' for Thurston woulda done what you did? Do you think Thurston would have?" He was angry now. "They mighta gone for the cattle, but none of 'em woulda gone to help my son. You did. You put your life on the line for a stranger. You don't belong with a reprobate like Thurston or with the cursed men who work for him. Get outa there, boy. There are plenty of good, honest men to work for."

"Like I said, mister. You don't know me," he growled and started to turn Sheila away.

"You don't think very highly of yourself, do you?" George said, reaching out to grip his knee. "You got a good heart, son, you just don't believe it."

"Good hearts don't help you survive this world, mister," the intensity of his retort bringing a stunned look to the old man's face.

"Good gracious, boy. What happened to you to make you believe that?"

"Hope your son will be all right," he said, giving Sheila a good solid kick, which he was pretty sure she didn't appreciate.

"Don't go down that road, Deeks. You're a better man than that," the old man shouted after him as he cut sharply through the gate.

He felt a cold shock when that name slammed into his back, almost disorienting him, and he kicked his mare even harder, wanting to put distance between him and the man who thought he knew him. The man had rattled him with his words and the name he'd called him left him with nothing but turmoil. It was his mother's name, and he couldn't bear to think of her much. Too much pain. Too many regrets and way too much anger was associated with that name. It had protected them both briefly, but they should have chosen another, because it had led his father to them. He'd kept it out of respect after he buried her. It gave him some comfort, but he was young, only fourteen when he ran before his father could do to him what he'd done to his mother. Her name was all he had left to remember her by. He had eventually realized that he needed a different name if he was going to survive the life he was leading and keep his father from finding him again. Why he'd told Joe Atwood his real name, he had no idea.

His ride back to Thurston's place was cold and exhausting and Sheila was tiring badly as he rode down through the gate. There was barely a thin line of pale light along the horizon when he walked Sheila into the barn. Her head was down and she was grumbling at him as he rubbed her down and tried to placate her with fresh oats and a full bucket of water. She wouldn't even press her nose against his chest, a sure fire indication that she hadn't appreciated the pace of the long ride back. He sat down on a bale of hay while she plowed through her oats, his eyes roaming the shadow filled barn as he listened to the animals. He always felt a sense of comfort around horses, even wild ones. He liked this barn, and thought about spending the night here, reluctant to be around Hedges after today. He pulled his hat off and tousled his hair, drawing in a quick breath as he cautiously touched the cut and tender bruise under his eye. Sheila continued to ignore him, so he rose and wandered toward the back, taking down a lantern to light his way. One of the end doors was open and he could hear the restless movements and the huffing of horses outside. Holding the light up, he saw three horses tied up, all still saddled and dirty, their necks streaked with foamy sweat that had dried on their coats. As he got closer, the lamp illuminated the nearest animal and he could see blood on the saddle. It was the next horse he recognized. These animals had been ridden by the men who had attacked Joe Atwood today and he clinched his jaw in anger, instantly on guard and cautious.

"Where the blazes you been?" Bonner hissed out as he came up behind him.

Max turned abruptly and had his gun out of his holster and up in Bonner's face before he got the last word out. The man's eyes widened and he held his hands out away from his body as he took a step back.

"Easy now," Bonner said nervously.

"Who rode in on these horses?"

"Don't know. Hedges and a couple of the men brought 'em in," he replied, relaxing as Max holstered his gun. "Said they found 'em loose on the prairie."

"What about the riders?"

"Why you askin'?"

"Just curious," Max replied warily, knowing it wouldn't be wise to share what had happened. "They need to be tended to."

"You're a strange one, Gentry. They're just horses," Bonner laughed. "Thurston's been asking for ya, and he ain't real happy."

"What does he want?" Max asked as he reluctantly left the horses and followed Bonner back through the barn.

"He weren't too happy when you didn't come back with Hedges and me," Bonner explained. "Wanted you to ride out with 'em."

"To where?"

"Got me. They left way before supper," Bonner said. "It's when they found them horses."

"Thurston was there?"

Now he was really confused, and tried to figure if the boss knew what had happened, or had something to do with the attack on the Atwood's herd.

"Bout time you was back," Hedges sounded irritated when he greeted the two men as they walked out of the barn. "Boss wants to see ya and he's on his high horse after today."

Nervous and unsure what that meant, Max followed Hedges up to the house, where every window glowed with light, making it stand out starkly against the dark silhouette of the hills behind it. Thurston's horse was tied to a fluted iron post out front, untended like the three in back of the barn. He was disgusted by that and extremely wary about what he was walking into.

Thurston was standing in front of a dying fire with his back to them when they entered and didn't turn to greet them. He said nothing for some time, and Max could feel Hedges getting edgy and probably angry. Thurston finally swallowed the last of the drink he'd been holding and then grunted, shaking his head and smiling as he turned. The smile was brief and not all that friendly, and he gathered himself for whatever the man was about to say.

"You missed some fun today," he started, his irritation plain. "And I pay you to be here when I want you. That's what it means to be in a man's employ. You seem to pride yourself on being an intelligent man, and yet you obviously have no concept of the basics of employment, especially by me. When I send you someplace, you do only what I order you to do and then you return. You don't go anywhere without my permission. You don't do anything without my permission. You don't shit without my permission. Do you understand? When I want you, you damn sure better be available, Mr. Gentry, or you won't like the consequences."

Thurston's voice had risen as his tirade went on, and Max found it difficult to maintain a straight face. He was angry to be spoken to like some ignorant dullard, but another part of him longed to make a smart aleck comment just to take some of the air out of the overbearing bastard.

"Hedges here says you interfered with his dealings with a U.S. Marshal."

"Just trying to keep things calm," he replied evenly, ignoring the low growl that came from Hedges.

"He thinks you showed a fondness for the slave calling himself a marshal," the man said with a hint of a taunt. "He said you kept him from putting him in his place, Mr. Gentry. Why would you do that?"

"The way I see it, I saved Hedges from tanglin' with a man almost twice his size" he explained flippantly. "His partner probably would have interfered a bit more than I did, and Hedges woulda ended up in jail or dead."

"Did you hear that Hedges?" Thurston scoffed. "Gentry claims to be your savior."

"Don't need one, but he might," Hedges threatened as he turned to face him.

"This time come at me head on," Max lowered his voice and his fingers twitched next to his pistol.

"As enjoyable as this little tête-à-tête is, I'm afraid you'll have to settle your disagreement on your own time," Thurston remarked.

"Thought you didn't allow free time," Max snapped without thinking.

"Beware Mr. Gentry," the man's voice sliding into anger. "You forget yourself. Now make yourself useful and see to my horse."

"What about the three you have tied up behind the barn?" Max asked.

"What about them?" Thurston asked.

"Where'd you come across 'em?" Max knew he was pushing his luck, but he needed to know.

"Why are you so interested?" Suspicion evident in his tone.

"Sounds like there was trouble is all," he replied easily. "Rustlers maybe."

"Your concern is quite touching," his tone condescending and irritating. "But, Mr. Hedges took care of it for me."

"You mean the riders?" Pushing once again.

"Weren't too hard. One was already shot up," Hedges sniggered. "Me and the boys made short work of the other two."

"They found out there are consequences to failure," Thurston said. "So, do your job Gentry, or you'll end up buried in an anonymous grave like those three."

"If you don't want me workin' for you, I'll ride out tomorrow," he replied, taking a step back so he could keep an eye on Hedges.

"Hedges will be leading a raiding party tomorrow afternoon," Thurston said. "I want you with him. Time to see what you're made of Mr. Gentry."

"A raid on who?" Stunned by his brazen statement.

"My, you are a curious man," Thurston smirked. "But I'll indulge you this time. My neighbors to the north need to be taught a lesson about the use of open range, and Mr. Hedges has expertise in this kind of intimidation."

"Quantrill," Max said softly with disgust.

"Us raiders put the fear of a God in them Yankee lovers," Hedges crowed proudly. "Rode with Bloody Bill Anderson too. Now there was a mean sonofabitch."

"The war is long over and we're not in Missouri or Kansas," Max said quietly, completely stunned by Thurston's plans.

"But a war is coming here on the plains, Mr. Gentry," Thurston expounded. "And men such as myself who have the wherewithal and vision to make something of this territory, are joining together to insure those plans are not thwarted by small ranchers using up our resources."

"So you just decide to burn out your neighbors?" He was almost breathless as he spoke, trying hard to control his growing anger. "Why don't you just buy them out?"

"Sounds reasonable, but these particular ranchers aren't interested," he said sharply. "So, a lesson is in order. If I find some of my cattle on their land, which wouldn't be surprising...well, one is justified in hanging rustlers. Don't you agree, Mr. Gentry?"

"Mind tellin' me the rancher's name?" He asked softly.

"A family called Mueller," he replied.

Max swallowed hard, unable to stop his heart from racing as the blood pulsed in his ears, blocking out the words of the man as he tried to justify what he was about to do. Suddenly smelling apricots, memories of Sarah Mueller's kind understanding flowed into his head, adding to his growing uneasiness. He'd only spent a short amount of time with the brothers and Sarah, but the thought of them going up against a man like Hedges made him sick. They were good people, and he knew he couldn't let this happen. He had to warn them. He needed to get out of this place so he could think and before he tipped his hand.

"I'll see to your horse, boss," he said, quietly interrupting the man's rambling monologue.

"Don't forget the horses of those three bungling idiots," he called out as Max turned toward the door. "Don't disappoint me as they did, Mr. Gentry. They found out I'm not a forgiving man."

Thurston was drunk and arrogant, but he wasn't lying. He was behind the attack on the Atwoods, and tomorrow he would attack another neighbor and there was no one to stop him. He led the man's horse into the barn and unsaddled it, his mind in turmoil as he wiped it down and put out some feed. It took him almost an hour before he was finished with all the horses and their tack, and by then he was ready to drop, tired and hungry and extremely angry. After pulling the bedroll from his saddle, he let himself into Sheila's stall and collapsed in the corner, hoping he could sleep some. She moved around him, finally dropping her head to nuzzle his hair, her warm huffs of forgiveness a comfort in the cold reality of his situation. He pulled her head down and laid his cheek against her long nose as he tried to decide what to do. He wasn't sure why he cared, but he did, as stupid as that probably was. Even if he rode to warn the Muellers he wasn't sure they could protect themselves from a butcher like Hedges, and if he went all the way into town to get help from those marshals he'd met, they may not make it back to the Muellers place in time. The closest ranch was the Atwoods. He could ask George Atwood to go for the marshals while he rode to warn the Muellers, hoping they would get there in time to help in the fight.

"We got a long day ahead of us, ol' girl," he whispered, his decision made. "And we'll be startin' early."

His mind wouldn't shut down, and he replayed the day over and over, the beautiful bounty hunter now just a wisp of memory. He wasn't sure he'd survive the coming day, but he found a determination within himself to do what he could to stop the injustice Thurston was planning. The man was cultured, but a bully same as Hedges. The two made for a dangerous combination, neither one with a conscience, or a kind bone in their body. He'd grown up with a bully, fighting and mostly losing to the man, and he just couldn't see letting Thurston destroy those good people. It wasn't right.

Sleep never came, just the emerging dull gray between dark and early morning. He ignored his empty stomach as he silently saddled Sheila, rushing a bit, needing to be off before anyone saw him. The mare seemed to sense the seriousness of the situation, making no sound except to stamp the ground anxiously, her ears pricked in anticipation. He led her out the back and walked her into the trees below the ridge, mounting her in the shadowy darkness under the canopy of branches. He found a track that led up an easy slope, the trees blocking him from sight should anyone be awake at this hour. When he reached the crest, he urged her quickly over the top and down the far side, moving slowly over the uneven ground he could barely see in the dim light. Cutting into a gully he'd followed yesterday, he finally eased the mare into a long loping stride, and when he reached the grassy plain he pressed her into a gallop, covering ground fast.

By the time he reached Little Jack Creek, the sun was skimming the tops of the aspen trees and the day was warming quickly. He allowed Sheila a breather at the shallows, dismounting briefly to slake his own thirst with a few handfuls of the cold water. They both were already sweating so he stripped off his buckskin jacket and tied it behind the saddle. Flinging himself onto Sheila, he quickly turned her toward the bend, searching the sky for any sign of smoke coming from the Atwood place. When he hit the meadow at full gallop, he saw George drop a bucket and reach for a rifle leaning against the barn. Max raise his hand in greeting to show he was friendly and saw the man relax, cradling the gun in his arms. They met at the open gate, Sheila blowing out her breath as she danced in a circle, her blood running hot, the same as his.

"Thurston's gonna raid the Muellers," he shouted. "Can you go for the U.S. Marshals in Saratoga? I'll warn the Muellers."

"I will," he said, his jaw hardening as he nodded. "How many men?"

"Don't know for certain, but the leader used to ride with Quantrill, so they'll be brutal," he said. "They're gonna accused them of rustling and probably provide the evidence to prove it. They may hang 'em."

He choked out the final sentence and George Atwood reached up and gripped his arm, his eyes intense.

"I'll bring the law with me, son," he said firmly. "We'll stop 'em."

Max wanted desperately to believe him, needing a bit of hope to cling to.

"I better get going."

"That's a long ride, son," George said. "Your mare fresh enough?"

"She can do it," he assured him. "I won't run her into the ground though. I should get there before noon."

"You're doing a good thing, Deeks," he said quietly, patting him firmly on the leg.

"I don't go by that name anymore," he said. "Max Gentry's my name now."

"I'd like to hear your story when this is done," the man said softly.

"Ain't worth hearin'," he said solemnly and turned Sheila back the way they'd come.

"You're worth listenin' to, son," George called after him. "And I'm a good listener. Remember that."

Max caught the words as he eased Sheila into a slow gallop, feeling a warmth spread through him he'd never felt before. He didn't want to disappoint the man. He wanted to make his words true, so he urged his mare to go faster, cutting across the bends in the trail to pick up time. When he reached the ford, he pushed her harder out into the grasslands, his heart racing along with her as they settled into a steady pace. He felt a deep urgency and concentrated on the landmarks that would lead him to the Mueller ranch. Sweat soaked the back of his shirt and he rolled up each sleeve in turn and then relaxed into the rhythm of the ride. The sun was climbing and the heat became relentless, but he didn't slow, knowing time was critical. He was almost there when he crested a slope crowned with a rocky outcropping and a long copse of small trees and rode right into Hedges' raiding party.

Sheila shied as he yanked on her reins, but he was quickly surrounded, the guns and rifles of at least a dozen men pointed at him. He kicked her toward an opening in the circle of men, but someone grabbed his reins and Hedges came up along side and slammed the barrel of a rifle down across his back, almost knocking him from his horse. He struggled to stay on as Sheila squealed and reared, fighting the man who had her reins. A glancing blow across the side of his head sent him tumbling to the ground, his vision blurring as he struggled to stay conscious and regain his feet. He was surrounded by milling horses, their hooves dangerously close and he felt panic rising in his throat. Pulling his gun, he managed to fire off one shot before it was knocked from his hand, but he grabbed the rider's leg, hauling himself up as the horse backed away. He got a fistful of the man's shirt and pulled him down to the ground, almost getting to his gun before Hedges charged his horse into him, sending him sprawling facedown in the dirt.

"Stay down, Gentry, or I'll blow a hole in your ass," Hedges growled.

"But that would be too easy Mr. Hedges," Thurston's cloying voice edging into his clouded mind. "He needs a lesson about the meaning of loyalty."

Max was unable to hold in a groan as he was kicked over onto his back. His hands were quickly tied tightly in front of him, and the rope was cinched around a raider's saddle horn. He resisted briefly as he was yanked to his feet, but Hedges dropped the loop of his rawhide lariat over his head, tightening it around his neck and wrenching his head back against his saddle. Hedges let out a low growling laugh as he wrapped the rope tightly around the horn until Max was unable to move without hanging himself. His hands were pulled out in front of him, and as the rider back away he was stretched between the two horses, his throat burning with fire as he struggled to stay conscious.

"You disappoint me, Mr. Gentry," Thurston said haughtily as if it was the greatest of crimes. "You've chosen the wrong side, and to no avail. The Muellers will still be burned out and you will discover just how vindictive I can be."

...

...


	8. Chapter 8

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 8_

...

Callen watched Sam finish off a huge pile of fried potatoes and a large slab of cornbread, trying his best not to make any kind of derogatory comment. The man could eat, and he often wondered why he didn't get fat, but he maintained he came from good blood and that his daddy had been a big man too, strong and tough until the day a mob hung him. He'd seen what he'd done to one man who'd made the mistake of asking about his father when they'd first become acquainted, so he had never pushed for more information. The manner of his father's death was the only thing he'd told the man before he'd knocked him senseless. Callen had done the same thing many times growing up an orphan on the streets. If some copper caught him stealing food, and asked him where his family lived, he came out swinging, getting thrown in with real criminals for his efforts. Their taunting had been vicious, but it was how he learned to fight. Maybe having a turbulent childhood was why he and Sam had connected, although they never really talked about it. MacKenzie had opened up that first day, but since then she never spoke of family. None of them did.

"You gonna eat that?" MacKenzie asked as she joined them.

Callen slid the remains of his flapjacks over to her, smirking as her eyes lit up. She practically doused the whole plate with molasses and then grabbed a sausage off Sam's plate. They had grown used to her ways and didn't even bother yelling at her during meals anymore whenever she snatched whatever took her fancy.

He was just about to get himself another cup of coffee when a man stepped inside the entrance to the hotel dining room. He was older and had pulled off his hat, clutching it in his big hands as he searched the dining room. He seemed tense and that always caught Callen's attention, knowing there was something wrong just by the way the man held himself. It was when his dark eyes settled on him that he rose. The man quickly strode toward him, his intensity catching, but it was his wariness that surprised him.

"You Marshal Callen?" He asked softly.

"That'd be me," he answered. "What can I do for you, mister?"

"I won't tell you here," he said, looking around at the other patrons with definite suspicion. "But I need your help."

"Who are you?" Sam asked.

"George Atwood," the man replied. "Have a ranch up on Little Jack Creek."

Sam got to his feet, as did MacKenzie. When the man saw her, his eyes softened and clouded with some confusion.

"Ma'am," he said gently, nodding to her in greeting. "Didn't realize you were married Marshal."

"He's not," Sam said. "And she's not."

"I'm MacKenzie," she said, holding out her hand, which he gently took and then let go.

"Can we talk outside?" The man asked, suddenly sounding rushed.

They followed him out to the hitching post in front and Sam was immediately taken by the man's fine buckskin horse, running a hand down along the big animal's shoulder.

"He's a beauty," Sam said, but frowned at the foam on his neck. "Look's like he's been rode hard."

"You know who Jim Thurston is?" The man asked, ignoring the criticism.

"Heard of him," Callen nodded.

"He's gonna raid the Mueller ranch up on Pass Creek," the man said, jamming his old gray hat on his head as he untied the buckskin. "If we start now, we might be able to stop 'em."

"How do you know this?" Sam questioned.

"One of his hired hands told me," he replied. "He was supposed to ride in the raiding party, but he'd met the Muellers and couldn't stomach the idea."

"Who is he?" MacKenzie asked.

"Goes by the name of Max Gentry," George said, as he mounted up. "It's a ways so we should get movin'."

"We met Gentry yesterday," she said. "Not sure I trust him."

"Well I do, miss," the man said without hesitation. "Stopped some rustlers from killin' my boy yesterday. My son was wounded and he brought him home. Didn't even know 'im, but helped him all the same. Rode in this morning on his way to warn the Muellers. Asked me to come get you. The man leading that raiding party rode with Quantrill. Now you folks comin' or not?"

"We'll get our gear," Callen said quickly. "Meet you at the stables."

"I'm coming too," MacKenzie stated.

"Don't think this is any place for a lady, miss," George said with concern.

"I'm a bounty hunter, Mr. Atwood, and one of the best shots you'll ever meet," she said evenly.

He stared at her solemnly as if trying to gauge her honesty, and simply nodded before saying, "My wife Josie taught me how tough a woman can be, so I'm pleased to ride with ya."

"You know anyone else might want to ride with us?" Sam asked as they neared the stables.

"Jim Thurston's run roughshod over this land for some time, Marshall," Atwood said, his anger unmistakable. "Folks are too scared to go up against that sorry bastard."

"But you're not."

"I believe he had my older boy killed. Just can't prove it," he said. "Think he mighta tried to kill my younger boy, too. Would have if it hadn't been for Deeks."

"He told you his real name?" Callen asked as he saddled his horse.

"Whatever he calls himself, don't matter," George said. "A name don't make a man, courage does."

...

"Do you fancy yourself a hero, Mr. Gentry? Is that why you wanted to warn the Muellers?" Thurston asked as he urged his horse up close. "Why do you care about those people? I'm curious. I had come to think of you as a hard man, but now I must reconsider my initial impression. I'd forgotten...you have principles."

Max drew in shallow sips of air, his eyes barely open as he looked away from Thurston and tried to ignore the pain and the man's taunts. He searched for Sheila amongst the gathered raiders, finally seeing her slightly up the slope, a man taking the jacket Red Bird had given him from behind the saddle and smiling as he put it on. The sharp sting of Thurston's riding crop across his cheek got his attention, enraging him once again. He struggled against the tightening ropes, his vision darkening, but still he refused to rise to Thurston's bait.

"Want me to shoot 'im, Boss?" Hedges asked.

"Don't be in such a hurry," Thurston said slowly. "It's early yet. You'll have plenty of time to impress upon that family what it means to deny me what I want. Which brings us back to you, Mr. Gentry."

The kick surprised him and it hurt, catching him just below the ribcage and making him sag against the noose around his neck. Gagging, he jerked involuntarily as his air was choked off and his vision faded to a brilliant white. He managed to get his feet under him and drew in a much needed breath, his eyes flashing open only to meet Thurston's curious stare. The man was enjoying this and Max felt a flush of deep fear.

"I can see the hate in your eyes, Mr. Gentry, and fear too," laughing and seemingly unconcerned. "Do you know why I came to settle in this god-forsaken country?"

"Because someone got sick of you and threw you out of yours?" Max choked out.

Thurston narrowed his eyes at that and his lips stretched into a thin smile, and he knew he wasn't far from the truth.

"You are very astute, Gentry," Thurston said as he brushed the tip of the riding crop across his lips. "A young man insulted me by dancing with a woman I was very much interested in. I watched them enjoy themselves all evening. You see, Mr. Gentry, he denied me the woman's attention, which of course was my due, since the party was in my honor. It was my birthday. The day I came into my inheritance. I had a couple of my servants bring him to me at the end of the evening. He never forgot his place again or me."

"You kill 'im, Boss?" Hedges sounded impressed.

"As I said earlier, Mr. Hedges, that would be too easy," his laugh was low and disturbing. "Much more interesting to stretch out one's enjoyment of another man's pain."

"You didn't get away with it did you?" Max asked roughly.

"I did for a time," he replied, becoming reflective.

"Whatcha do to the woman?" Hedges asked.

"I married her," he replied softly.

"That's one way to get revenge," Max said, managing a cocky grin.

The crop caught him across the eye and he screamed.

"I recall your quote from Tennyson, Mr. Gentry," the man said, leaning over his horse's neck, getting close enough to smell. "By the time I am done, you will yield."

The rope around his neck suddenly loosened and he dropped to his knees, then was jerked forward, the rope burning his wrists as he was pulled to the ground by the horse he was tied to. His eye was swelling shut, and he could feel warm blood on his cheek, shuddering at Thurston's order to remove his boots. He managed to kick one of the men, but was instantly sorry when someone slammed the butt end of a rifle down behind his knee, making him cry out again. Stunned by it, he rested his head on his arms, his gasping breaths sucking dust into his mouth as Thurston laid out his plans.

"If the woman is alone, take her. It will make the men compliant," he instructed. "Burn the house, but I may have use for the barn. Hang each man in turn until the last one agrees to sign over the ranch. If one holds out to the end, then threaten to hang the woman. Some men can get quite sentimental over the sufferings of a woman."

"You bastard!" Max roared and stumbled to his feet, almost getting to Thurston before he was yanked back to the ground and dragged halfway up the rocky slope.

"What you want us to do with 'im, Boss?" Hedges asked.

"He's mine," he replied. "I'll take the man dragging Mr. Gentry and Bonner. I look forward to your report this evening, Mr. Hedges. Don't disappoint me. I've had enough of that today."

"That there is Charley Newcomb," Hedges said. "Don't talk much, but he's a good ol' boy and a mean sonofabitch."

"A glowing recommendation," Thurston said dryly as he rode up behind Max where he lay panting on the ground. "Just follow orders Charles and we'll get along just fine."

"Where to?" The man asked.

"West and then south to the dry creek bed north of the ranch," he said.

"Not much grass or water out that way," Bonner said. "That's rough ground, Mr. Thurston."

"That's the point, Mr. Bonner. Now get him on his feet and hand me the end of that rope around his neck."

Bonner knelt beside him, getting his hands under him and lifting him to try and get him up on his knees. Barely aware, Max valiantly tried to stifle the gasp that escaped when Bonner's arm pressed into his bruised ribs, his curse a mere whisper.

"I thought you were tougher than this, Gentry," Thurston taunted him and he struggled to his feet.

He staggered free of Bonner's arms and turned to stare defiantly at Thurston, who had a bemused look on his face. When Bonner handed the man the rawhide lariat that was still tight around his neck, even that thin connection sickened him. He watched the man's eyes grow cold and hard and he braced himself.

The smile never left Thurston's face as he slowly pulled the rope taut. A hard yank forced him back to his knees, but he fought to rise again, only to be pulled down as Thurston backed his horse away. Dirt filled his mouth and blinded his one good eye as he was dragged slowly over the rough ground, his throat on fire as he slowly began to lose consciousness.

"You are at my mercy, Gentry," Thurston's voice sounding distant and triumphant. "I knew I would enjoy having you around. Shall we go Charles?"

He heard a loud whoop and his arms were jerk violently to the left as Charley Newcomb kicked his horse. The sudden excruciating pain in his joints made him cry out as he was dragged up to the top of the slope and out onto the rocky plateau. Rough stones tore at his clothes and cut into his flesh as he tumbled over and over. He could hear Thurston laughing and he was angry that he would die without having a fighting chance to defend himself. He could hear the pounding of the horses' hooves on either side, but that slowly faded as his heart began to beat in his ears and his own deep moans drowned them out. He had no idea how long or how far he was dragged and was surprised when it all stopped.

"Don't pass out on me this soon, Gentry."

Bonner once again got him to his feet, but had to hold him up as he swayed and then slumped against him. Thurston reeled in the lariat around his neck until he pulled him up against his horse's shoulder.

"Walk or be dragged. Your choice," he offered as if he were being generous.

"Fuck you," Max croaked.

"Not quoting Tennyson anymore?" Thurston laughed. "Your pride in your intelligence is misplaced, I'm afraid. You have to admit how stupid you were to try and warn the Muellers, which, to be honest, I still can't understand. Perhaps you are a romantic and see yourself as a hero, riding to the rescue like in those crude dime novels you people like to read."

His only response was a low groan, which earned him a sharp kick in the gut. He hurt so badly all over it actually made him laugh, which seemed to anger Thurston, and the rope around his neck loosen and he was kicked to the ground. He heard Charley cluck to his horse and the big animal started off at a brisk pace once again, and Max fought to keep his head up as his shirt became shredded, exposing his skin to the sharp rocks. He tried to repress the gasps of pain but his mind soon became numb with exhaustion as he tumbled down a small dry gulley and up the other side. He wasn't even aware they had stopped until he heard Thurston calling his name.

"Gentry! Get up and walk," Thurston ordered. "Or Charles here will drag you until there's nothing left of you."

"Isn't that the plan?" He asked without energy, spitting out a gob of bloody mud.

"I'm afraid your imagination is quite limited, Mr. Gentry," he said lightly, once again sounding as if he were enjoying himself.

"Bullies like you are all the same," Max said, struggling up onto his hands and knees, coughing from the dust that clouded the air around him.

"I suppose it depends on your point of view," he replied. "I doubt you've had experience with someone like me."

"Now whose pride is showing?" Max asked hoarsely as he managed to stand, swaying unsteadily, but defiant. "You think you're special, but you're not. I grew up with an illiterate bastard who used brutality to prove to himself he was a man. But he wasn't and neither are you. You're just an arrogant coward."

"I need no validation from someone like you," he said abruptly, bringing his crop down viciously on his horse's hindquarters.

The horse leaped forward, clipping Max as he charged by, sending him spinning to the ground. Thurston turned the animal and coaxed him close.

"Get him up, Mr. Bonner and hold him there," his voice a low growl.

When Max was finally on his feet, he was shaking with rage. Thurston brutally slashed his crop down across his collarbone, and then raised it to hit him again. Max roared and rushed him with what little energy he had left, grabbing two fistfuls of the man's jacket before Charley had a chance to react, but when he did it pulled both men to the ground. Thurston landed hard on his shoulder and Max could see outrage color the man's face, his mouth contorted as the air left his lungs and he was dragged across the rough ground, Max's tied hands still clutched in his coat.

"How's that feel you sonofabitch," Max growled in his face, happy when the man was unable to speak.

The thrill was short lived as Bonner slammed the butt of a pistol down on his head, leaving him barely conscious. His head swam with dizziness, the pain coursing through him as he was dragged free of his tormentor. When he opened his eyes, he found himself on his back, his arms stretched above his head, squinting into a brilliant sun that sent spikes of pain through his head, forcing his eyes shut once more. He desperately wanted to see what Thurston looked like, wondering if he might have actually hurt the bastard, and rolled onto his side so he could take in the scene. He grinned when he saw Bonner trying to dust the pale dirt off his boss, but it was the look of pure rage on Thurston's face that sobered him. The man shoved Bonner away and stalked toward him, his clothes disheveled and his hat gone, his face a rigid mask and his mouth locked in a cruel sneer. He stood trembling over him, his usual confident arrogance replaced with the raw meanness that always hid behind it.

The first kick was savage, the rest out of control brutality. By the time the man was finished, Max was retching blood and bile onto the dusty ground.

"Your knife, Mr. Bonner," Thurston commanded, breathing hard from his efforts. "Lift his leg and hold his ankle steady."

Max shivered at the words, but had no energy left to fight as Thurston slashed the knife across the bottom of his bare foot. His own scream shocked him as much as the fiery pain. The next cut was slow and his second scream longer, leaving him panting and shivering at the violence of it.

"Now the other one, Mr. Bonner," the man's voice settling into his usual dispassionate tone.

Max was embarrassed by his own ragged screams and by the tears of agony he could no longer control. He felt the man's hand on his foot as he worked, and his whole body began to quiver, even after his foot dropped to the hard ground sending shooting pains up into his groin.

"Cut him loose, Charles," he heard him order and sucked in a quick breath as the pressure on his shoulders eased into a dull throb.

"Tie his hands behind his back, and make it tight."

He was swimming in darkness by the time they were done, lying facedown in the dirt, soaked in sweat and his face streaked with tears and blood. Thurston stood over him and pressed his booted foot into the back of his neck.

"You are not worth my effort any longer, Mr. Gentry," he said as if bored. "This land eats up weak men like you, so I will leave you to the elements. I doubt you will manage to survive, but it is a fitting place for you to try. Unless of course you wish to yield?"

"No."

It was barely a whisper and scored with pain, but Thurston heard it and crushed the heel of his boot into his neck until he passed out.

...

The four riders had just rounded a bend in the river when they saw the ominous smoke rising over the low hills ahead. Callen stole a glance at George Atwood and saw his jaw clinch as he kicked his buckskin, making it surge forward even after the tiring distance they had come. The long loping strides of the big horse ate up the ground and the others were hard pressed to keep up. Callen could hear the sharp report of rifles mixed with the firing of multiple shooters and his gut tightened in anticipation of the battle to come. He noticed that Sam already had his gun out as they topped the rise, but was surprised to see MacKenzie veer off to their left and dismount before her gray had come to a skidding halt, her Sharps rifle in her hand. As he rode down toward the small ranch, he saw her take up position on the crest of the hill, her rifle already firing on the raiders below.

The back half of the house was engulfed in flames and there were a few bodies strewn across the yard, and riderless horses milled around the creek. Several of the raiders were hold up behind a wagon and were firing on the barn and Callen saw four men riding around back and called out to Sam, who turned his horse down that way. They were still out of range and Callen urged his horse to go faster, wanting to edge ahead of Atwood before they crossed the creek. He saw one man down in front of the barn and he heard the old rancher cuss.

"It's one of the Muellers," he shouted and began firing.

Callen's horse took the creek in three strides, flanking the men behind the wagon. Shouting out who he was, he fired on them, taking out one as he turned in surprise and then the other before he could bring his gun around to fire. The third man's body jerked backward as MacKenzie's bullet tore through his upper chest just as Callen reached him.

"U.S. Marshals...throw down your weapons," Sam's voiced boomed out over the gunfire, but the shooting only intensified.

George Atwood ignored the gunfire and was trying to pull the wounded man inside the barn and Callen leaped down and raced to help him, knowing MacKenzie would be covering him. Between the two of them they managed to drag the man into the barn where they were met by two older men, one with blood on his sleeve.

"It's damn good to see ya, George," the tall, thin one said.

"You too Freeman," George replied. "Coot looks pretty bad."

"They shot him off his horse before we ever saw 'em," the wounded man said as he struggled to cock his rifle with his bad arm. "Couldn't get to 'im."

"You okay Branch?" George asked as he stuffed his neckerchief into the bloody hole in Coot's shoulder.

"Hurts like a sonofagun, but I'll be fine," he said. "You see Sarah?"

Branch exchanged a sad look with his brother as he eased his jacket under Coot's head.

"She was home alone," Freeman choked out, but his eyes hardened as he looked at Callen. "How many men you bring Marshal?"

"My partner is out back and I've got someone on the ridge with a Sharps," Callen said as he started toward the back of the barn.

"Where's Max Gentry?" George asked.

"How do you know that kid? Did ya hire 'im?" Branch asked as he fired a shot.

"No, but he's the reason we're here," George replied. "Said he was coming to warn you. Asked me to get the marshals."

"Never made it," Freeman said quietly.

"Those are Thurston's men aren't they?" Branch said.

"Yeah," Callen said from the back of the barn, just as the door cracked open. "Dammit Sam, I coulda shot you."

"Couple of 'em just rode off," Sam said with a smile. "Guess they didn't like the odds."

"I got the woman, so throw out your guns or I shoot her," a familiar voice called from outside.

Jim Hedges had his arm wrapped around Sarah's waist with his pistol pressed against the side of her head. Two other men stepped away from the porch, the fire whipping up under the eaves, the roar growing as it ate at the wood.

"Let her go Hedges," Callen warned. "This is over."

"Ain't nothin' done yet Marshal," he said as he walked her close by the wagon. "Kinda surprised to see you two though."

"Did you kill Gentry?" George asked gruffly.

"No, but I bet he wishes I did," the man laughed. "Didn't think he'd go to the law."

Callen and Sam moved out into the open, one on either side of the barn doors, their guns sighted on Hedges. Sweat darkened the armpits of the man's shirt, his face dirty with it and he nervously gripped the pistol, pulling the stoic woman with him as he edged back.

"How ya doing Sarah girl?" Freeman called out.

"Got one with my shotgun before they grabbed me," she said with a shaky voice. "Is Coot alive?"

"He is ma'am," Callen said softly as he edged closer.

The lawmen slowly began to walk toward them and Hedges swung his gun off of the woman and onto Sam. It was the last thing he ever did as a bullet tore off the back of his skull. Callen and Sam both fired, taking down his two cohorts before they recovered. Freeman quickly ran to Sarah who stood shivering in place, her eyes closed on her tears as he pulled her close and held her, whispering to her until she slowly collapsed into his arms.

Callen looked up to see MacKenzie cross the creek and he nodded his appreciation, but she kept her eyes on one of the wounded men on the ground. She slid from the saddle and grabbed the man, making him cry out at the rough treatment.

"This is Gentry's jacket," She said sharply. "Where'd you get it?"

"Took it off Gentry's mare," the man said as he squirmed. "He weren't gonna be needin' it."

"Why's that?" George asked as he knelt down in front of him and fingered the buckskin fringe.

"Thurston had 'im tied behind a horse and dragged off," he said.

Branch stepped up and kicked the man solidly in the leg, making him whimper. "Where?"

"The high plateau, I think," the man said. "He was in bad shape afore that. Ain't seen the boss that mad in a long time."

"I'll find him," George said softly.

"That's rough country," Freeman said. "He won't be easy to find out there."

"He saved Joe's life. I owe it to him to try," George replied, his determination clear.

"I'll come with you," MacKenzie said, glaring back as the men stared at her. "What? I'm a good tracker."

Callen smirked at Sam, who was smiling, making MacKenzie shoot them a dark look as she swung back up in the saddle.

"I'll get ya some extra water and blankets," Branch said. "Sounds like he won't be in good shape if ya find him at all."

"I'll find him," MacKenzie said. "Haven't lost a man yet, I was set on findin'."

"We think she likes his hair," Callen said, smirking at her.

"Don't listen to them, girl," Sarah said, gently squeezing her knee. "You go find that boy. He's alone out there and he needs someone to care about him."

"I just like a challenge, ma'am," MacKenzie said quickly as she backed her horse away.

"Well, that boy will be one," Sarah said, smiling for the first time. "But, he'll be worth the effort."

...

He first became aware when a small trickle of sweat found its way beneath his eyelid, stinging and making him blink awake. He felt heavy and hot, the pale dirt he could see stirred by his shallow breathing where his cheek rested on the warm ground. Sounds slowly came to him, but it was just the buzzing of flies and other insects, letting him know he was alone. He was afraid to move.

Remembering brought the pain as he became fully conscious. The heat was overbearing, and tiny gnats hovered around his mouth and nose, irritating him and reawakening his brooding anger. It made him try to move, and when he did, he screamed. Panting heavily, he tried moving his hands, but they were so tightly tied behind his back that all he felt was a tingling numbness. The dull throbbing pain in his feet roared in agony when he moved them, and he shouted out his rage in the vast emptiness around him, leaving him drained.

"Quit feeling sorry for yourself, Deeks," his own voice sounding oddly muted.

He itched with sweat, and could only see out of one eye, but he didn't want to die here. He didn't want Thurston to have the satisfaction of finding his dead body exactly where he'd left him. He had to move. He had to get on his feet, and he had to walk no matter how painful it might be. He had to. He had to.

His first efforts were uncoordinated, revealing different areas of pain he'd forgotten. When he finally managed to get up on his knees, he smiled, feeling a sense of pride that was short lived when he tried to stand. His sharp cry ended in a deep moan as he got his right foot under him, the savage pain fogging his mind, his unwanted tears an embarrassment even though he was alone. His whole body quivered, chilled in spite of the heat, the sour smell of his own sweat filling his nostrils as he pushed to stand.

"No, no, no," he whimpered as debilitating pain sent shivers through his body, and an all encompassing weakness sent him tumbling backwards onto the ground.

He heard his father's laughter as he squeezed his eyes shut against the sun, a bloody red lighting the vision behind his eyes. He could picture the man standing over him as he had so many times, yelling at him to get up and be a man. He needed to do that now. He needed to get up, to move, to ignore the mind-bending pain, to survive this as he had so many other days. His mother had had the strength to do it. He never understood why she took all that pain, or why she had endured such suffering and not run. Was she that brave? Or had she been beaten into submission, afraid to fight for what it might cost her or for what it might cost him. She never told him, she had simply ignored her pain to comfort him in his, and that had always made him angry.

"Help me be strong, Mama," he whispered, drifting in foggy memories. "Help me survive this."

The prickly heat woke him and he rolled onto his side and slowly pulled his knees to his chest. With a deep grunt, he eased up onto his knees, resting his forehead on the rocky ground as he clinched his jaw tight with raw determination. Once again he forced his brutalized body up onto his knees and then got his foot up under him, panting from the exertion and dizzying pain. His bit his lip bloody as he stood, dragging his other leg up until he was on both feet, swaying dangerously.

"Now walk, Deeks, you weak sonofabitch."

...

The trail the raiders had taken was easy to backtrack and MacKenzie and George made good time. After a couple of hours they found the place the men had stopped and she felt an odd stirring of emotion when she saw Gentry's hat crumpled on the ground. A loud whinny from the other side of a copse of low trees explained the edginess of their horses, and George quickly headed up the slope to take a look.

"It's his mare," he said softly as he dismounted.

The bay was tied to the trunk of one of the trees, her saddle still on and Gentry's gun belt slung over the horn.

"They were gonna pick her up on their way back," MacKenzie reckoned.

George dismounted and took his canteen, cupping his big hand under her nose as he poured out the water. The horse seemed grateful, and MacKenzie began to warm to the kind man.

"No way for a man to treat a horse," he murmured as he untied her and led her over to his buckskin, tying her to his saddle.

"Who's says they're men at all?" She said as she got down to check for sign.

"You got a point there," he replied. "Can you tell which way they went?"

She swallowed hard as she followed the drag marks up the slope toward the rough country beyond. She had seen a few spots of blood on the disturbed ground where they'd probably taken him down, but dragging a man behind a horse over this kind of terrain was a cruel punishment.

"Three riders," it was all she had to say as George rode up beside her and looked at the track the men had taken.

"Bastards," his voice was soft, but the hard look in his eyes was not.

MacKenzie had been suspect of Gentry from the moment she'd seen him, but she had also been attracted to him and that had confused and angered her. Now she felt a different kind of emotion. She was angry for him. No man deserved to be treated this brutally, and from what this man Atwood had told them and what the woman Sarah had said, her quick rush to judgement might have been wrong. He had tried to do a good thing, and had earned the wrath of a vengeful man. She never liked to admit she was wrong, even to herself, but whatever her feelings, she found she desperately wanted to find the man and find him alive.

Swinging easily up into the saddle, she kicked her gray and headed out across the vast plateau, blistered by the hot sun. The track was easy to follow and sadly so. They found a couple of areas where the men had stopped and she had no trouble imagining what had happened at each. Her anger at Thurston deepened when they came upon a spot that showed where the three men had left their captive. The blood that had been spilled here had soaked into the arid ground, it's red brown color staining the bleached soil.

"What did they do to him?" George asked grimly.

"Not sure, but they left him here to die," she answered. "They rode off toward the south."

"Where is he?" George asked as he searched the horizon, shading his eyes from the blinding sun.

"I think they cut his feet," she said softly, the words haunting her as she followed the bloody footprints.

She walked her horse beside the prints, noting where he had fallen each time and fighting her anger and the surprising tears clouding her eyes. She began to admire his strength and his courage, recalling his soft smile when he had given her the caramels. She looked back up at George Atwood to see him scanning the horizon ahead and there was a sadness about him as if he was preparing himself for what they would find.

"There," he said suddenly.

She turned to look where he was pointing as he kicked his horse forward and she stared into the wavering light. She saw him then, staggering at the edge of a gully, his hands tied behind his back, his tattered clothes almost white with dust, making his figure blend into the landscape. Her heart leaped and she choked on the surprising flash of tears, but berated herself for her emotion as she leaped into the saddle and spurred her horse into a gallop. Her heart lurched when she saw him go down and then disappear, and then she was suddenly angry with him. She wanted to yell at him to get up, not wanting him to give in to the men who had done this to him, and she roughly wiped at her eyes when she saw George jump down from his horse and disappear from sight.

Leaping from the saddle at the edge of the shallow gully, she quickly scrambled down beside George as he reached the man's broken body. He was lying face down and unmoving, his wrists raw and torn around the rawhide he was tied with and the bottoms of his feet were caked with blood. George knelt down next to him and quickly cut his hands free and then turned him over and gently lifted his limp body into his arms. MacKenzie bit her lip when she saw his ravaged face and battered chest, wondering how he had found the strength to survive it all.

"Bring me that canteen. He needs water," George ordered, as he cradled the man's head in the crook of his arm.

"Is he alive?" She asked.

He suddenly opened one eye and began to fight George's hold on him, croaking out swear words and curses as tears streaked down his dirty face.

"Easy son. I've got you. We're not here to hurt you," George said softly, shushing him until he ran out of strength. "We've come to take you home."

"I don't have one," he whispered, staring up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

MacKenzie poured a thin stream of water over his cracked lips as George held him, calming him with his kind voice.

"We'll see about that, son. We'll just see about that."

...

...


	9. Chapter 9

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 9_

...

He was a grown man, he knew that, but he thought of him as a boy nonetheless. The occasional moan that slipped out whenever Honcho stumbled slightly on the rough terrain tore at him as if he were his own. Maybe it was that caution in his eyes when he'd brought Joe home, or how he held himself apart, kind of skittish, waiting to be dismissed as if he were in the way somehow. Josie had seen the longing in the depth of his blue eyes that day. She had told him the boy reminded her of the stray dog they'd adopted when they first got married, the one afraid whenever one of them reached out a hand to him. She had ranted for a while, as she was prone to do, about the way some people treated their children, sensing somehow that his childhood had been hard, but then she had always had a soft spot for lost boys. They weren't all that rare around these parts. Most of the young men working the ranches were running from something or someone or trying to find someplace to call their own. They had talked about what might have happened to this boy that had him so afraid to even use his real name. He had tentatively suggested that he might be an outlaw on the run, but Josie simply glared at him until he recanted his comment, reminding him that Joe was lying right in front of him, alive, because of the boy he was now carrying home.

"How far?" The girl asked, looking worriedly at the man he held against his chest.

"Won't be long when we reach that creek down below," he replied. "Why don't you ride on ahead and warn my wife, Josie."

He gave her the directions and she looked relieved to have a task to do, or maybe she just wanted to distance herself from the badly wounded man. He seemed to stir strong emotions in her, though she tried to hide it. His low groans and whimpers of pain when they'd got him on the horse had distressed her, as they had him, but she had quickly gotten ahold of herself when she saw him watching her. They weren't that different, these two, both protecting themselves as best they could from anyone trying to get too close. He'd found that out when he'd asked her one too many questions on the long ride home. He was pretty sure Josie was gonna like her.

"Sheila?" The softly rasping voice startled him. "Whatcha do with her?"

The boy began to struggle against him again and he tightened his arm around his chest. He held him until he ran out of strength, which didn't take long, his head dropping to his chest in defeat.

"You takin' me to Thurston?" He asked, his low tone sounding as if he was resigned to his fate and it saddened and angered him at the same time.

"No boy," he replied softly. "I'm George Atwood, remember? I'm takin' you to my ranch. Josie will get you feelin' better in no time."

"Your Joe's father," he finally said and slumped weakly in his arms. "The men who shot him worked for Thurston."

George found it hard to breathe at the confirmation of his belief. Thurston had to be an arrogant man if he thought he could get away with what he'd done. He'd make sure those marshals knew who was responsible, and then that evil son of the devil would get what was coming to him, not just for trying to kill his son, but for this battered young man he'd left for dead.

"We're almost there, son," he said.

"Don't call me that."

He felt the sudden ripple of tension through the young man's body and he knew there was a long story there. He kept silent after that, urging Honcho across the shallow ford and onto the slight trail that led home. His anger surged at the men who had hurt him so badly and he suddenly felt fiercely protective of the young man. As tough as he was, he was wounded more than just physically, he was deeply wounded in spirit, his soul almost as battered as his body. Maybe as they helped his body heal they might be able to give his soul a place to rest. Maybe if he didn't have to fight so hard to survive, he might find the good in himself. The ranch was just the place to do that. It had always been a haven for him, but then he had Josie by his side, and his thoughts turned once again to the young woman he now saw standing with his wife, and he smiled.

As soon as they lowered him to the ground, he hissed in pain, crying out when his feet touched the bare earth. George saw the concern in his wife's eyes, but it was the wide eyed anguish in MacKenzie's that made him struggle to lift the tall young man in his arms and carry him up the stairs to the porch and into the house. They had gotten Joe into his room the night before, so Josie had prepared the daybed next to the fireplace and he quickly laid him down as gently as he could.

"Sweet God!" Josie looked shaken, and he put his arm around her. "Did Thurston do this?"

"'fraid so," George said softly. "Boy never made it to the Muellers."

"That man should be horsewhipped," her considerable anger coloring her cheeks.

"Aren't you gonna help him?" MacKenzie asked abruptly.

"Of course, girl," Josie said with a kind smile, squeezing the young woman's arm as she held herself tightly. "I'll need your help though."

"I'm not good at this," she said, taking a step back.

"Well, get good at it. You look tough enough," Josie said sharply. "Now, do what I tell you and we'll try and ease some of this boy's suffering."

George smiled as Josie took charge as only she could, ordering the girl around and expecting to be obeyed. Although MacKenzie's eyes flashed ominously a few times, she did as she was told and when they had gathered all the things they needed, Josie cupped her cheek and smiled gently at her.

"Why don't you clean all that dirt off his face," she said kindly. "George? Get the whiskey. He's gonna need it when I see to his feet."

Josie sat down beside him on a low stool and lifted his hand and placed it in her lap, and began to gently clean the blood encrusted dirt from the raw skin encircling his wrist. Both his arms were scored with dirt filled scrapes, the remnants of his sleeves just ribbons, which she cut away before washing his arm. MacKenzie watched her carefully, biting her lip as her eyes brightened with a glaze of tears, blinking them back quickly when Josie looked up at her.

"Do you think he'll be all right?" She choked on the words as she clutched the wet cloth in her fist, catching herself as if embarrassed by her concern.

"We'll do our best, girl," Josie replied. "Now, be careful around his eye."

The girl hesitated and Josie reached out and pulled her down until she was kneeling by Deeks' head.

"Just take it slow," she said quietly. "Be as gentle as you can. We don't want to hurt him anymore than he already is."

The two women worked silently, the only sound an occasional whimper from Deeks when Josie moved him to stripped away his tattered shirt. George hadn't heard her swear much since he'd married her, but when she saw the mottled bruising and torn skin all over his chest and stomach, she used a couple of words he wasn't aware she even knew. George helped them get his pants off, and he struggled against their efforts until MacKenzie snapped at him. He opened his eyes briefly at that, looking confused until he saw her and then he smiled.

"Good dream," he murmured.

"Quit fighting us," she ordered. "We're trying to help you."

"Sheila?" He groaned and George saw MacKenzie draw away from him.

"No one here by that name," she said quietly as she solemnly returned to the task of washing the dirt from the deep scratches on his chest.

"Did they shoot her?" He was becoming agitated and pushed the girl's hand away, his one eye wild as he stared up at George.

"There was a woman with you?" Josie froze and looked quickly at her husband.

"Is Sheila your mare?" George asked softly as he squeezed Josie's shoulder, knowing what she had been thinking.

The boy nodded, his expression so needy and sad. "Did you find her?"

"She's outside, boy," George assured him. "I'll make sure she's tended to, so you just rest and let these lovely ladies take care of you."

"This one's not a lady," he whispered as he closed his eyes. "Not real. A dream maybe."

"How long was he out there?" Josie asked. "Sounds like the sun got to 'im."

"Four or five hours," George replied. "Think that head wound might have addled him some, too."

Deeks began to mumble as they did their best to clean his wounds, none of it making any sense to them. Josie worried that he was feverish and had the girl bring some cold water to try and cool him down. The two women were working in tandem now, determined and focused as they eased him onto his side to get to his back. George helped hold him steady as they made quick work of the dirt and sweat, his low groans tough to listen to when they washed over the dark bruises on his back. His whole body was quivering by the time they were finished and he could see the tension in the two women.

George left them to spend some time with Joe, telling him what had happened and holding him in the bed when he wanted to come out and see the boy. He knew how much his son missed his brother and wondered if the shared pain of surviving Thurston's hatefulness had caused him to feel some kind of bond with Deeks. The man had saved his life, so that made for a strong connection and he was certainly angry at what Thurston had done to both of them.

It felt right to have two boys in the house again. More balanced. But remembering that devastating day when Joe had brought Christopher's dead body home would haunt him all his days. The sadness still hung in the air, the loss never to be filled. He could see it in his son's eyes now as he sat with him. Josie's response when she'd looked at Deeks echoed what they both had been thinking; making him ashamed that they secretly longed for it to be Chris they were tending, and not this stranger. The boy was not their son or Joe's brother and it pained him to be reminded of that.

"Will he make it?" Joe asked.

"Your mother will see that he will," he answered softly. "You know that."

"He reminded me of Chris," Joe said. "He's a smart aleck like Chris was."

"He said you kept callin' him that," George replied.

"Shoulda been Chris," he whispered. "I miss him, Papa."

"I know," George said as he patted his arm. "Thurston will pay now."

"We can't prove it was him," Joe reminded him.

"Deeks told me Thurston's men shot you," he replied. "And his men raided the Muellers. Almost killed Coot. The marshals know that, and they'll see what the man is capable of when they see what he did to that boy."

"I woulda died out there just like Chris," Joe said quietly. "How do I repay him for saving me, Papa?"

"We're workin' on it, son," he said as he stood. "We owe him and he needs us now."

He might not be family, but that boy had saved them from another loss that would have devastated them both. He reached down and took Joe's hand, needing to feel the warmth of his skin, thankful once again that he was alive and home because a stranger had put himself in harm's way to save him. The boy wasn't blood kin, but he was forever beholden to him for the life of his son, and that made him as close to a blood tie as he needed.

A raw scream sent a chill through him and Joe's hand gripped his in response. The boy needed him and he strode from the room, his heart beating hard in his chest.

"He won't take the whiskey, George," Josie said from the end of the day bed. "I think we might just have to soak all that blood and muck off his feet."

George quickly filled a deep pan with water and brought it to his wife, noticing that the girl was now standing against the back wall, her arms wrapped tightly around herself and her mismatched eyes flashing angrily. She watched silently as they eased his leg over the side and gently lowered his foot into the basin of warm water. He shivered violently and cried out, panting heavily until he exhausted himself. The water was instantly muddied and it took three basins of water until Josie was satisfied with the result. They had to bend his knee to get his other foot in the basin and he screamed when they did. George took his hand and the boy gripped it hard as he rode out the pain, easing up only slightly until they were done.

"That welt behind his knee is almost black," Josie said, as she dried each foot, careful not to touch the seeping wounds, which had her swearing softly under her breath. "Good God, George. What kind of man does this to another human being?"

"Thurston's not human," Deeks whispered.

"I'm gonna have to stitch these cuts," she told him calmly. "And it's gonna hurt like holy hell. Take the whiskey, boy."

"No."

"You try George," Josie ordered. "He don't know what's good for 'im."

"Let me," MacKenzie said quietly, walking quickly up and taking the bottle from George's hand.

She sat down on the cot next to him and brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. He opened his good eye and stared at her and George saw the defiance, but the boy couldn't hold back a soft smile. She lifted his head and he didn't resist until she brought the bottle of whiskey to his lips.

"Not drinkin' that," he said, the smile still on his face.

"I can make you," she warned. "The shape you're in, it'll be easy."

"A lady wouldn't be this mean," he rasped out, his good eye closing.

"Don't try and be tougher than you are," she said.

"Don't think I can take it?" His nostrils flaring in sudden anger.

"No, I don't."

"You're wrong."

"I'm never wrong," she said as she lifted his head once more and tried to pour the fiery liquor into his mouth.

He jerked away from her and grabbed her wrist, his strength surprising them all.

"Just do what you have to do," he gritted out.

"Why are you being so stubborn?" The girl asked as she easily pulled herself free.

"Don't like what it does to a man," he replied softly.

"I could just knock you out," She offered. "It would serve you right for being such a baby."

Josie gripped George's arm at the comment and he was as stunned as she was, considering what the man had gone through. Deeks' response was a soft laugh that surprised him even more.

"You're the damnedest woman I ever met," he whispered.

"And you're a stubborn pain in the ass," she snapped back. "Now, drink this so Josie can stitch up your feet. You're bleeding all over her bed."

He nodded then and MacKenzie lifted his head and helped him drink a few good swallows before he turned his head away.

"Happy now?" He coughed out.

Josie gave him a bit of time as she gathered what she would need, and George thought he had slipped into sleep, but as soon as Josie sat at the end of the bed and lifted his foot into her lap, he became rigid, biting his lip, his face and chest glistening with sweat.

"Hold him still, George," Josie said softly. "I'm gonna pour some of the whiskey over these cuts."

His scream was heartrending, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he panted, grabbing onto MacKenzie's hand as George held him down.

"Now the other one, son," Josie said gently.

"I'm not your fuckin' son," he screamed out as the fiery liquid filled the open wounds.

"If you were, I'd wash your mouth out with soap, boy," she warned, and George could hear how shaken she was by his screams.

"Sorry, ma'am," he whispered, his head dropping back on the pillow as he passed out.

"You need a break, Josie?" George asked, taking a deep breath. "It ain't gonna get any easier."

"At least he's unconscious," she replied with a sigh, brushing the hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. "You okay MacKenzie?"

"Makes me want to shoot the man who did this," her voice was cold and low and made George take a long look at her.

"Before you do that, come hold his leg still," Josie said calmly. "Might as well see how many cuts I can sew up before he wakes up."

He remained unconscious for most of her work, but awoke with a shout just as Josie started on the last wound, taking a swing at George as he cursed. He grabbed the boy's wrists and pressed his arms down to his chest and held him as his icy blue eye locked with his, bravely gritting his teeth until she was finished. George let him go and MacKenzie turned away and walked into the kitchen. Deeks watched Josie as she gently bandaged each foot, sudden tears welling in his eyes when she patted his ankle and stood up to look him over.

"You get some sleep now," she said softly as she pulled a blanket over him, tucking it in around him, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered.

"Call me Josie," she replied, feeling his forehead for fever.

"I'm Marty," he murmured. "Thanks for your kindness, ma'am."

His last words could barely be heard, but George could see they had touched his wife. She lingered over him, one hand clutched to her mouth as she wiped at the tears she could no longer hold back. He went to her and wrapped his arm around her and tugged her away. He knew she was emotionally exhausted, but was fighting it, just as the girl was fighting her feelings. Now that he was here and safe, George felt a deep weariness, saddened by the events of the day, and angered by the knowledge that it could have all turned out so differently if the battered boy laying by his fireplace had not intervened. He was a strong man. A good man. And he hoped he would come to realize that after today.

...

George woke to the eerie sound of coyotes and reached for Josie, but felt only cool bedding where she'd slept. He wasn't really surprised. She was a light sleeper normally, but with another injured man in the house, he knew exactly where he would find her. She had managed to get food on the table last night in spite of her weariness and had argued briefly with the girl when she tried to leave. He was the one she had finally listened to, agreeing that trying to make her way back to town in the dark would be too dangerous for her horse.

They had all taken turns sitting with Deeks as his fever rose and he knew his wife was there now, tending to the young man she was determined to make well. She'd always had a thing for strays, once even raising a coyote pup she'd found hurt and abandoned behind the barn. She eventually had the little thing following her all over the house, and he wouldn't be surprised if the same thing happened when the wounded man got back on his feet. He'd seen that look in his eye when she'd gently wiped the sweat from his face. It held such deep longing; an empty sadness there that let him know that he was bereft of a family that would care for him. He knew the look of loss and it was plain on the boy's face, and it made him wonder just how long he'd had been on his own.

It wasn't that long till daylight, so he dressed and stepped out into the front room, taking a moment to look in on Joe, who was snoring loudly, making him smile. Then the fevered murmuring of the boy made him turn, and he sighed with contentment when he saw his wife bathed in the muted glow of the small fire she'd stoked to life. She wrung a cloth out into the basin of water at her feet, then tenderly pressed it to the young man's forehead and then to his cheek and throat as he tossed unknowing in the soft light.

"Didn't notice the rope burn around his neck until just now," she said.

"He's a strong man to survive all that Thurston musta done to 'im," he replied as he placed a chair by the boy's head and sat down to watch her. "He's gonna be alright, Josie."

"Will Thurston really he held to account for this and the Muellers and for Joe?" She asked. "He has powerful friends."

"Even they can't go along with this kind of brutality," he reasoned.

"You always see the best in people," she said, shaking her head. "You really think those greedy men will care a kettle of beans about what Thurston did to this boy? Well, they won't."

"They can't overlook his attempt to kill the Muellers," he said earnestly. "They're landowners and U.S. Marshals were there. They have a witness."

"A hired gun," she spit out angrily. "Not someone the territorial governor would give the time of day, and neither will those overstuffed, greedy friends of his in the Stock Growers Association."

"Your big brother fill your head with all that political stuff from Cheyenne when he was here?"

"Don't treat me like I don't have a mind of my own, George Atwood," she said pointedly.

"Yes ma'am," he laughed softly at her vehemence. "It's why I married you."

"You married me because I told you to," she replied, smiling a little.

"And because you're beautiful," he said, reaching out to take her hand. "And because I wasn't that dumb of a cowboy."

"Well you're dumb if you think this boy and ours will get any justice," she said solemnly.

They sat quietly together after that, listening to the tortured ramblings of the feverish young man, bathing his face and chest in cool water to soothe him. Josie had wrapped a bandage around his head to cover his swollen eye and it was now soaked in sweat, his dirty hair leaving a mark on the pillow as he fought the demons in his dreams. Chris had been prone to nightmares as a child and George felt that same need to ease this boy's fear as he had his son's.

"Leave her be," Deeks suddenly cried out with the first words they could understand.

Josie took one of his hands in both of hers and softly shushed him and began to hum a lullaby she used to sing to the boys when they were little. It had always touched him, that haunting sound floating in the darkness that would send two little boys back to the safety of sweet dreams. He thought there must be some magic in its lilting melody, because Deeks slowly became calm, turning his face toward the sound and sighing in his sleep.

"I won't let 'im hurt you again, Mama," he whispered. "I promise..."

Josie gripped his arm when they heard that, and they searched each other's faces, knowing this boy had been troubled most of his life and George felt the same heartache he saw in Josie's eyes. She laid her hand against the boy's cheek and he leaned into her touch and George held his breath as he caught the reflected firelight in her sudden shimmering tears.

"You sleep now, Marty," she said softly. "You're safe."

"Okay Mama," he said and a small smile softened his battered features as his body settled.

Josie got up and turned away, and walked slowly over to the window, placing the palm of her hand against it as she stared outside. George followed her, resting his big hands on her shoulders to let her know he understood.

"I should be angry, but I'm just sad for him," she whispered. "He needs us, George."

He heard the determination in those last few words, and he knew she had made up her mind to keep the young man here as long as she could. She might not be his mama, but she had surely adopted him as her own and George wouldn't argue with her about that.

...

She listened to the Atwoods talking from her makeshift bed on the too small sofa, keeping still for fear they would realize she was awake. Gentry had woken her early with his murmurings, but she had resisted her impulse to comfort him, trying to keep her distance from the turbulent emotions that had assailed her ever since she'd seen that raider wearing his buckskin jacket. She had thought him dead in that stunning moment and raw rage had erupted in the pit of her stomach, surprising her. She'd only met him once and he had been aggravating as hell, a cocksure man that had somehow held her attention. She was angry that he did. She was angry that she was attracted to him, wanting to ignore those uncomfortable feelings. That had ended when she thought they'd killed him. Then her anger turned towards them.

Tracking his ordeal over miles of rugged terrain had brought out deep emotions she wasn't sure she even understood. She never expected to find him alive. She had tried to prepare herself for a grisly discovery and she was pretty sure George Atwood had tried to do the same. When she saw him standing on the edge of that gully, she had felt relief, but also pure joy that he was alive and it had scared her badly. Why would she feel that? Why did she rush to his side when she saw him collapse? Why did she suddenly care for a stranger she'd just met? It was confusing then and confounding now that she had touched his bare skin and fought back bewildering tears at the pain he was suffering.

As savagely scarred as his body was, his half nakedness had stirred a deep need in her and she was embarrassed by the impure thoughts she'd had as she cleaned his wounds. She'd felt a surge of want she had rarely experienced, and had felt her cheeks redden, which she desperately tried to hide it from the Atwoods. Her fingers had trembled when she'd run them over the bare skin of his chest and stomach, his muscles rippling beneath the thin cloth as she washed away the bloody grime. She couldn't help but admire his slender body, even in this state. She had to admit he was a handsome man, and strong to have survived and she found she admired him for that strength. He was still annoyingly stubborn, even while badly wounded and she wondered what he would be like when he was well again. She liked his smile, and was sorry she could only see one blue eye.

"Stop it," she whispered to herself, feeling a disturbing heat deep in her belly.

"You awake, MacKenzie?" Josie asked from behind her. "George is seeing to the stock. The coffee will be ready in a minute."

"Thank you, ma'am," she said as she sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

"I have a brush you can use for your hair if you like," the woman said kindly. "And you're welcome to clean up in my room. I put out some fresh linen for you and I can heat up some water for you to wash with."

"I appreciate that, ma'am," she said shyly.

"I think you better start callin' me Josie after last night," she said. "Check on him if you like."

"He tossed and turned a lot," she said as she stood, straightening her clothes as she walked over to warm herself by the fire. "Still feverish."

"No surprise there," Josie commented, and MacKenzie could hear the anger in her voice.

She brought her a cup of coffee and took another into the bedroom and she could hear her talking to someone, so she followed, trying to distract herself from Gentry.

"When were you gonna tell me about her, Ma?" Joe asked, his smile brilliant in the dim light.

"Didn't have time," Josie laughed. "This is my son Joe, MacKenzie. She helped your father find Deeks."

"Really?"

"You think cause I'm a woman I can't track?" She suddenly bristled.

"Steady little lady..."

"I'm not a little lady, I'm a bounty hunter," she snapped. "You're almost as annoying as Gentry was the first time I met him."

"You're worried about him too," he replied, and she could hear the caring in his voice. "How is he? Those screams last night nearly did me in."

"Thurston took a knife to the bottom of his feet," Josie said softly, taking her son's hand in hers.

"That son of a bitch," he said slowly, and then looked strangely at MacKenzie. "You saw him out there. What did that bastard do to him?"

"Dragged him behind a horse and then tied his hands behind his back and left him for dead," she said, gasping at the starkness of her own words.

"Your father said he walked a fair distance after they left him," Josie said sadly. "Don't know how he did that with his feet all cut up."

"I'm gonna kill that bastard," Joe said plainly. "We know he killed Chris and tried to have me killed. Now he does this to the man I owe my life to. I have to kill him, Ma."

"Wait till you get well, son," Josie said gently as she checked the wound in his shoulder. "Your father's gonna talk to the marshals to see what the law might do."

"Men like him own the lawmen," he said bitterly.

"Not these marshals," MacKenzie said.

"You know 'em?" Joe asked.

"Rode with 'em for a few weeks," she replied. "They're good honest men. They'll be coming by here sometime today to see if we found Gentry alive. They'll want to hear what he knows about Thurston."

"I owe you for findin' him," Joe said. "Gives me a chance to repay him. Surprised the hell outa me when he started shootin' those rustlers off their horses. Thought he was another rustler till he came back to help me. Talked to his horse most of the way home. Was kinda annoying."

She warmed to him as he smiled at her, but she could see he was tiring fast and turned to go check on Gentry.

"His real name's Deeks," he called to her.

"I know," she said.

"He talked to his horse about you," he told her, making her turn to see if he was joking. "I think he likes you."

"Why? Because he discusses me with his horse?"

"Horse didn't say much," he answered. "But Deeks thinks your real pretty."

"He said that?"

"To his horse, so he's probably crazy," he replied. "Thought he might have been embellishing a bit till now."

His compliment caught her off guard and she blushed, feeling a little flustered by his comments about what Deeks had said. She didn't think he would lie to his own horse, and she smiled shyly, making Joe Atwood laugh.

"You like him too," he said.

"I didn't say that," she snapped, leaving as fast as she could, flustered once again.

She was halfway to the kitchen when she heard Gentry groan, and turned to see him trying to get up. He rolled onto his side and pushed himself up on his elbow, his arm wrapped protectively around his ribs. She got to him before he could swing his legs over the edge of the bed, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him back down.

"Where do you think you're going?" Scolding him as she sat down next to him.

"Need to feed Sheila," he whispered as he pulled at the bandage covering his eye.

"George is taking care of her," she said firmly, still holding onto his upper arm. "Now leave that bandage alone."

He looked up at her then, scrutinizing her as if he couldn't remember who she was. He was breathing heavily from his failed attempt to get up, and she felt a warm flush of excitement at their closeness. When he smiled at her, she quickly let go of his arm and scooted back a bit.

"You're the 'lady' who likes sweets," he said. "Those caramels were good, yeah?"

"Yes they were," she said, offering a brief smile of agreement.

"You have a funny name," he said, frowning as if trying to remember again.

"MacKenzie," she said softly, suddenly frightened his mind might have been affected.

"Don't sound like a girl's name," he smiled with a teasing look on his face.

"It was my mother's maiden name," she said, fighting her sudden annoyance.

"Too long," he said, his voice growing weaker. "Not sweet enough."

"I'm more tough than sweet," she pronounced proudly.

"Kenzie sounds better," he mumbled. "Easier to say."

"That's not my name," she said, getting exasperated with him. "My God...you are one irritating cowboy."

"Don't even like cows," he whispered. "'cept to eat. Hungry..."

"When'd you last eat?"

"Breakfast the day I met you," he said, blinking slowly as he looked at her.

"That was two days ago," wondering how he'd had the energy to fight Thurston.

"Can you fix me somethin'?" He asked, as his tongue darted out to wet his cracked lips, making her take in a quick breath.

"I don't cook," she stated, gladly looking away. "I'll ask Josie."

"How about water?" He asked with that cocky grin. "I'm thirsty too."

"You're a lot of trouble is what you are," she said, trying to make a joke.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to be a burden," he said in a low voice and turned his face to the wall.

She reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder, stunned at his reaction. She ran her hand lightly down his arm, skipping over the raw rope burns on his wrist, until she took his hand in hers, and gripped it solidly, tugging on it until he looked at her.

"You're not a burden," she said earnestly. "I'm just glad we found you alive."

"I thought I was dreamin' when I saw you out there," he croaked out, his emotions getting the better of him. "Thought you'd come to shoot me. Put me out of my misery."

"You really thought that?"

"You gave me no reason not to after the last time we met," he said quietly, his eye now a piercing blue and making her sorry for her hurtful words that day.

"I don't think I would have found you without her," George's voice seemed to cut between them and she let go of his hand. "You owe her some thanks, boy."

"I owe all of you," he whispered, his voice breaking at the end. "I don't think a simple thank you will be enough."

"Then you can buy me some more caramels," she said as she stood up.

"I'll do that, Kenzie," a slight smile gracing his weary face.

She was surprised by the warmth she felt when he called her by that name, her exasperation gone, replaced by a desire to comfort him. She moved to the side table and poured a cup of water from the pitcher, and George nodded to her as he walked into his son's room. Gentry's eye opened when she sat down beside him, and she could see the pain he'd been trying to hide. He reached up to take the cup from her, but his hand was trembling and the water spilled, and he hissed out a curse under his breath.

"Let me help you," she said quietly, noticing some embarrassment as he agreed.

She lifted his head, resting it in the crook of her arm and brought the cup to his lips. Once he tasted the water, he became almost desperate for it, cupping her hand with both of his, drawing in the cool water as if it were a lifeline. She felt the heat of his body as she held him, and it was all she could do to breathe normally. She tried to back away, but his hands held her close until he was finished. He looked up at her as they lowered the cup together, and her heart seemed to flutter, so she eased her arm free and stood, wanting to get away from him, yet not. She could see the fatigue on his face, and he watched her until he began to blink slowly and his breathing became even. She made sure he was asleep before she pulled the blanket up over his chest, her fingers ghosting lightly over his arm, allowing herself to wonder.

...

...


	10. Chapter 10

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 10_

...

He fought his way through terrifying memories, feeling the intense heat of his own body, his mind flickering as if he could see it burning. Afraid to open his eyes, he struggled to control the rhythm of his breathing, unable to take a deep breath for fear of the stunning pain it would bring. He felt as though someone was holding his feet in a fire and he groaned deeply, salty tears creasing the clammy sweat on his face. Terribly hungry, his throat and mouth dry as if filled with dirt, he became convinced he was still tied up and at the mercy of the sun. It must be the reason he was so hot, his body continually racked by waves of shivering chills.

He had walked so far with no hope. The pain unnerving as it was now, but he remembered that someone had come. Someone had helped him. A big man had carried him. A man almost as big as his father, but his father wouldn't have been that kind. And a woman with cool gentle hands like his mother, but his mother was dead. Maybe he was too. Maybe he was in hell. It felt like he had imagined it when he was small and his mama made him go to the tiny church in Bodie, the preacher's fiery description of hell not too far from the torment he was feeling now.

Then he remembered the dark haired woman, and he barely opened the one eye he could still see out of and she was there beside him. She looked different. Her hair was loose and hung past her shoulders. He was surprised that his body could still respond, but it offered him one sure sign that he wasn't dead.

"His fever's getting worse," she said to someone.

A woman's cool hand pressed against his forehead and then cupped his cheek and he felt tears in his eyes at the comfort it brought. He was sorry when the hand lifted and he struggled to see where she had gone.

"Don't leave me here," he begged, as the dark haired woman got up.

"Shhhhh, boy," another woman whispered, wiping the sweat from his face with a cool cloth.

It felt like heaven.

"I'm not in hell am I?" He managed to choke out.

"Not anymore," she said. "Now rest, and let us take care of you."

"Who are you?" Panting at the effort it took to ask.

"Why doesn't he remember?" The dark haired woman asked.

"Do I know you?" He struggled to raise his head to get a better look at the people surrounding him. "Do you work for Thurston?"

"No boy," the calm, low voice of a man sent him reeling and he pushed the woman's hand away.

"I don't believe you," he yelled. "I won't yield, you bastard...I won't."

He tried to fight them, but had no strength. Shamed by his weakness, he screamed curses at them as the big man held him down until he gave in. He let himself drift, his mind foggy with the all-consuming pain and the roaring heat he couldn't escape, the voices above him blending into a low hum that he rode into the welcomed darkness.

...

She slammed out the door, her anger too much to control. She'd had a conversation with him early that morning, and her emotions had gotten the better of her. Now, all she felt was anger that he didn't remember any of it. Why she cared made her uncertain and needing to get away from the wounded man in the house. She'd been amazed at how hot his skin felt when she touched him, and saw the worry on Josie's weary face. Could they lose him after all? She didn't want that, but she was still confused as to why she even cared.

He was a stranger who'd been caught up in a range war, and for all she knew he was as much of a bastard as all the other men who worked for Thurston. Just because she was attracted to the man didn't mean he was a decent person. He wasn't perfect, she could say that for certain. He was arrogant, full of himself just like most men who thought the world revolved around them. She didn't need someone like that. Besides, she still wasn't convinced he wasn't wanted for something. A good man didn't go to work for a man like Thurston.

She leaned against the fence and stared out over the wind blown grasses of the pasture toward a far stand of birch trees, their leaves vibrating in the light breeze. This was a beautiful place and reminded her of her stepfather's ranch in Colorado, not as big or as rugged, but comforting in its familiarity. The Atwoods were good people, and their kindness had awakened memories of the family she had once cherished. All of it was gone now, and being here only made her more aware of what she had lost. She could do no more here. Josie would tend Gentry better than she could, so she should probably leave and get back to what she did best, tracking down wanted men who didn't make her feel anything.

She heard the door close and heard the big man's footsteps as he made his way to her, but she ignored him as he rested his forearms on the top rail next to her. Several of the horses in the pasture raised their heads, their ears pricked at this new presence and a couple started to walk purposefully towards them. He kept silent and she appreciated that, speaking only to the two horses that came to the fence, one nibbling at the fabric of his shirt.

"This is his mare, Sheila," he said softly after a time. "I have a feelin' she's been his only friend in this world for quite awhile."

She didn't reply, not wanting to talk about Gentry, but she didn't want to walk away from this kind man. There was a calm strength about him that she was drawn to, so she continued to silently stare out over the pasture.

"Hard to watch a man suffer," he said softly. "'specially one you saved and tended."

"I just did the tracking. It's what I do," she mumbled, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden.

"But you wanted to find him," he replied. "You can't deny that even to yourself."

She had no idea what to say to that, so she remained silent, hoping he would leave her in peace.

"Caring about someone is confusing, ain't it?" He said, huffing out a short laugh. "Catches us by surprise most of the time. No accountin' for the reason. But to deny it don't work. The heart takes over and there's no fighting it once it's got ahold of you."

"I don't know what you mean," she said flatly.

"The first time I saw Josie I was twenty and full of beans, if you know what I mean," he laughed. "I was workin' a small horse farm outside of Lexington, Kentucky and she was the owner's niece come for a visit. Never seen a woman ride like a man before. Teased her a bit. She still won't let me forget it."

He paused as his memories took hold, and she could almost feel the emotions he was trying to contain.

"My God, that woman was beautiful. Took the wind right outa me," he whispered. "Knew I didn't stand a chance with her, but I couldn't get her out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried."

"Is this where you tell me you both fell madly in love and lived happily ever after?" MacKenzie said flippantly, surprised at her own rudeness.

"Life ain't a fairy tale, miss," he said, turning to stare at her with keen dark brown eyes. "But I got a feelin' you already know that."

"Sorry."

"You don't strike me as a woman who's afraid of much," he said. "Don't be afraid to let your heart lead you once in awhile. It won't hurt as much as you think."

"You're wrong there, Mister Atwood," she said sadly. "I intend to write my own story and I don't need anyone else to help me do it."

He simply stared at her for a few quiet moments and then pushed away from the fence before speaking. "At some point you're gonna find out just how lonely that kind of life can be."

Her anger surged as he walked back to the house, then she stomped toward the barn, intent on saddling up and getting the hell away from all these people. His comments had been well intentioned, she knew that, but were disconcerting all the same. And she had no desire to go back inside, even to say goodbye, or to see Gentry burning with fever, his body and mind still tortured by what his boss had done to him. This wasn't her fight. These people weren't her family and she had no intention of letting herself give a damn about that wounded man, no matter how attractive he was. She may want him, but she sure as hell didn't need him.

The loud whinny from a couple of the horses in the pasture made her turn and she saw Callen and Sam approaching from the East, followed by another man. She swallowed down the bad taste in her mouth and sighed deeply, wanting to hold onto her anger, but relieved that she would have familiar faces around. She waved at them as they dismounted and led their horses toward the barn.

"Did ya find 'im?"

She remembered the man from the Mueller's place, but had never gotten his name. He seemed to realize that and some of the tension drained from his face as he touched the brim of his hat and introduced himself.

"I'm Branch Mueller, miss. Never got to thank ya for your help," he said. "But I really need to know if you found that boy alive. We all took a likin' to 'im, 'specially Sarah."

"He's in the house," she replied softly, marveling at the true concern on the man's face.

"How bad?" Callen asked.

"He's alive, but don't ask me how," she reported, trying to keep any emotion out of her voice. "Thurston had him dragged quite a ways, then sliced his feet open and left him for dead. Found him in a dry gully with his hands tied behind his back."

"My God," Branch said, pulling his hat from his head and gripping it tightly in front of him.

"Why not just shoot him?" Sam wondered.

"It woulda been a kindness," George said as he joined them. "Think he wanted the boy to admit defeat and when he wouldn't the bastard wanted him to suffer. He's burnin' up with fever. Out of his head. Keeps fightin' us, sayin' he won't yield."

"Coot was right. Always said Thurston was the devil himself," Branch said.

"Think he'll make it?" Callen asked.

"If we can get his fever to break," George replied.

"I might be able to help with that," Sam said. "Learned a thing or two from the Comanche. Keep some herbs and roots for a tea in my saddlebags. It'll dull the pain a bit too."

"That would be a welcome blessin', son," George said as he motioned them to come up to the house.

MacKenzie hung back, and Callen noticed and let the others go. He eyed her suspiciously, and she instantly resented his ability to read people, especially her.

"Don't you start," she said as she headed deeper into the barn to get her gray saddled.

"Start what?" He asked with that damn cocky smirk on his face.

"You know what," she snapped.

"Must be bad, if you're this shook up," he said kindly.

As much as she didn't want to talk about the affect Gentry's suffering had on her, she knew Callen would understand. He had become a good friend and wouldn't judge her. She didn't say anything while she saddled her gray, and he patiently waited, but she could tell he was curious. She usually kept tight control of her emotions and had been determined to keep them from the Atwoods. Callen saw through that and was offering her a way to vent all of her pent up fury of emotions.

"I've haven't wanted to kill a man this bad since I tracked down the men who killed my parents," the truth of it crashing into her mind now that she'd said it out loud. "I've seen a lot of cruelty doing what I do and I've seen plenty of dead men, but..."

She was trembling when he got a firm grip on her shoulder and it steadied her.

"I don't even like Gentry, but he didn't deserve what that man did to him," she said quietly.

"You must think I'm blind and stupid," Callen laughed. "You don't have to lie to me you know. I won't make fun of you. I don't know what happened after you got him here, but something did or you wouldn't be this upset."

"Back off," she said, furious at his comments. "Nothing happened...I just...I.."

"God, MacKenzie...how bad was it?"

"He started screaming when Josie tried to clean his feet," unable to stop the hot tears from falling. "She tried to get him to take some whiskey, but the stubborn fool wouldn't, so I threatened to knock him out..."

"Wait...what?"

"He needed something to dull the pain, Callen, but he wouldn't take it," she said angrily, shivering at the memory. "I was just trying to get him to see reason, not that he's the kind who would. He's exasperating."

"I can see that," Callen said with a slight smile.

"Then Josie poured some of the whiskey over the cuts and he...he grabbed my hand and screamed," MacKenzie was finding it was hard to breathe as she relived it all, gripping the saddle horn tightly as she leaned against her horse.

Callen was behind her, but she heard him suck in a breath. When he put both hands on her shoulders, she finally let herself go, his kind gesture breaking her down and she struggled to fight back tears.

"I've never heard someone scream like that," she choked out, before turning to face him.

"Hard to get that sound out of your head," Callen said quietly, his eyes downcast and she knew he was remembering the war.

"I didn't mean to remind you of hard times," she said.

"Can he talk?" Callen asked soberly, ignoring her remark.

"He's delirious," she answered. "Can't understand most of what he says."

"He's the only witness that can tie Thurston to the raid on the Mueller place," Callen told her. "The wounded raider didn't make it."

"That's why you're here," she said.

"Sent a telegraph to the Territorial Governor from Fort Steele, tellin' 'im what happened," Callen said. "The one I got back was nasty. Told me I was wrong about Thurston and to keep away from 'im."

"The Atwoods said he has powerful friends," she replied.

"He'll get away with all of it, unless Gentry gives me something to use," Callen said grimly. "Maybe not even then."

"I'd just as soon shoot 'im," MacKenzie said darkly. "Or do to him what he did to Gentry."

"And here I thought you didn't care about him," Callen smirked.

"Shut up," she said, punching him sharply in the arm.

"Hey...save your anger for the man responsible," Callen said as he frowned and rubbed the sore spot. "Let's go in. I need to see 'im."

"I'll wait here," she said quickly.

"Didn't think you were afraid of anything," he said. "Looks like Gentry is the exception."

"I'm not afraid of him," she said heatedly.

"You're afraid of something," he reasoned, as he turned and walked out of the barn.

She was fuming at what he said, but she followed him silently all the way into the house. Sam was with Josie in the kitchen, boiling something on the big iron stove that smelled pungent and slightly nauseating. She stole a quick look at Gentry as he writhed in the small bed, pushing the blankets off, allowing Callen to see some of what he'd suffered at Thurston's hand.

"Sonofabitch," Callen said under his breath.

"Never seen the like," Branch Mueller said, laying a comforting hand on the boy's leg.

Sam walked between the two men and sat down on the small stool near Gentry's head. He shot a look of incomprehension up at Callen, and then reached over and gently lifted Gentry's head and brought a cup of awful smelling tea to his lips. He struggled briefly, but Sam held his head firmly and forced him to drink a little bit at a time. He reacted as he had with her, his hands coming up to hold onto Sam's, his body responding to its need for water. The grimace after each swallow, made her smile, but she felt relief that he had taken something, knowing just how long it had been since he'd had anything. Her anger had softened when she saw him again and she was glad someone was helping him. She was surprised at how kindly Sam was being, having never seen this side of him before. When the cup was empty, Sam eased his head back down on the pillow, and then gently squeezed his shoulder. It woke him.

"Am I under arrest?" He panted as he stared at Sam. "I didn't kill 'im."

"Who?"

He began to mumble again and the men were dumbfounded by his comments.

"Didn't find a body out there," George said softly, looking quickly at MacKenzie.

Maybe she'd been right. Maybe he was a wanted man and his feverish mind had simply jumbled everything together. She didn't want it to be true, but she honestly wasn't surprised, even though she'd found no wanted posters on him under either name.

"The boy's confused," Josie said as she pushed through the men standing over him. "Let 'im rest."

She gently wiped his face with a cool cloth and he opened his eyes and smiled at her, his eyes bright with fever.

"I hafta go to jail, mama," he whispered. "But I ain't sorry...he woulda killed you."

"No one's takin' you to jail, son," she said kindly.

"He's a marshal," he said, pointing a trembling finger at Sam. "That's why he's here."

"He made you some tea to ease your fever is all," she said.

"Get away while you can, mama. He'll hurt you again," he begged, gripping her hand tightly. "Run...please mama...run."

"No one's gonna hurt her, boy," George said quietly as he kneeled down next to the bed.

"Yes he will, cause I shot 'im, so he's real mad now," he said, sounding angry and scared and so very young.

"I think he's talking about his childhood," Josie whispered.

"Or Thurston," Branch offered.

"Don't think he woulda been able to shoot Thurston," MacKenzie said. "And there wasn't enough blood."

"Who'd you shoot, Gentry?" Callen asked.

"Who's Gentry?" He looked totally confused and tried to back away from them.

"Tell me what you did, Marty," Josie coaxed. "It'll ease your mind."

"No," he whispered fretfully, turning his head toward the wall. "Then you'll hate me too."

"A mother can't hate her own child," she replied, taking his hand.

He turned to stare at Josie, his eyes turbulent with emotion and pain, but with something deeper that made MacKenzie shudder at the depth of sadness she saw there.

"Poppa does," He said plainly.

"What can you say to that?" Branch breathed out softly.

Suddenly, he seemed to become aware of all the people standing over him and covered his face with his hands, rolling over onto his side toward the wall.

"Go away," he said.

Nobody said anything, but they all began to step back, Sam and Callen both looking stunned as they walked out onto the porch. Josie had tears in her eyes and George rested his hand on the back of her neck as she slowly stroked Gentry's head until he went to sleep.

MacKenzie had been mesmerized by the conversation between Josie and the man. He had seemed so childlike, innocent, even if what he said was true. In his fevered state, he undoubtedly thought Josie was his mother, and it wasn't hard to figure that it was his father he'd shot. How old he'd been when it happened, he might never share, but she was fairly sure he had been quite young. But it still held him captive, just as the deaths of her parents had maintained a strong hold on her. She felt a deep sympathy for him, and memories of her own father rose in her mind. He had been a loving father, as had her stepfather, and the thought of growing up without that love was something she couldn't comprehend. She had always taken that love for granted until they were both gone, leaving her feeling empty and full of anger. Gentry had never felt the comfort of a father's love as she had, and it could have made him into an uncaring and hard man, but it hadn't. He had become tough, and probably carried some anger, but had not become uncaring, or he wouldn't have tried to warn the Muellers. Maybe she shouldn't be so hard on him. Maybe there was more underneath that irritating personality that was worth discovering.

...

Opening his eyes in the dark was disorienting, so he lay still, allowing his eyes to adjust, until the muted glow from the dying fire made him aware of the man sitting in a chair by his bed. His head hung over his chest, but occasionally jerked up, fighting the need to sleep. The man had a blanket around his shoulders, but his chest was bare except for the white bandage that stood out in the shadowy room, and Deeks was surprised to see him sitting there. Sudden movement from the far side of the fireplace startled him and he moved too quickly, making him gasp at the pain and begin to pant as his feet started to throb.

"You okay?" Joe mumbled, yawning as he sat up and rubbed at his eyes.

"Who else is here," he asked, unable to stifle the unsettling fear that clutched at him.

"Callen," the man called out softly. "Don't sleep much. Didn't mean to disturb you."

"Looks like your fever finally broke," Joe said. "You had everyone worried."

"Why?"

"Your fever was so high you were talkin' crazy," Joe replied. "My parents were worried about you."

"Seriously?"

Callen stood and stretched in front of the fire before kneeling to throw a couple of logs on and stoke it to life. "You can thank Sam for getting enough of that nasty stuff he brewed into you. Took it awhile to work, but you finally settled."

Deeks was surprised by everyone's concern and that Joe was sitting with him even though wounded. "You still hurtin' bad?"

"Not as bad as you," Joe said softly. "That bastard nearly killed you."

"He enjoyed it too," Deeks said, suddenly feeling raw and angry again. "Managed to drag him off his high horse though...literally."

"Made him mad, I'm bettin'," Callen said.

Deeks didn't respond, the throbbing pain in his feet keeping him silent as he tried to catch his breath.

"Did the Muellers make it?" He asked quietly.

"Coot was pretty badly wounded, but everyone else is fine," Callen told him. "Branch got winged, but he came along to see how you were. Sorry to say they lost the house."

"Shit," Deeks whispered. "Are they safe somewhere?"

"Take it easy, Gentry," Callen said, noticing his agitation. "They're at Fort Steele for now."

"What about Hedges?" He asked. "He's a nasty sonofabitch."

"You're right about that. Was using Sarah as a shield," Callen said grimly. "MacKenzie shot 'im in the head."

"I'll be damned," Joe said. "Good thing she likes you, Deeks."

"Not sure she does," he said with a cock of his head.

"She's havin' a tough time dealin' with what Thurston did to you," Callen said. "Wants to shoot 'im."

"Tell her to get in line," Joe said bitterly.

"Think he knows I'm alive?" Deeks asked stoically.

"If he does, he'll want you dead," Callen replied.

"Yeah...pretty sure you're right."

"You're the only one can tie him to all this," Callen said. "You willin' to testify to what you know?"

"You really think that's gonna do any good?" Deeks said wearily, sounding more defeated than he intended. "I'm nobody. He's a cattle baron with rich friends."

"Is that a no?"

"You wanna give 'im some time to heal up before you put him in that man's sites again?" Joe snapped.

Deeks was surprised at the vehemence of the man, but it calmed him to find someone on his side. He was so very tired and the thought of going up against Thurston again was too exhausting for him right now.

"Think about it, Gentry," Callen said evenly. "The man gave orders to burn out his own neighbors. He didn't care if Hedges killed them all. I've seen his kind before. He won't stop. It's who he is. He'll come for you. You know that."

"He can't know he's hold up here," Joe said.

"And he only knows me as Max Gentry," Deeks said softly, feeling sleepy and tired of talking.

"So you're going back to your real name?" Callen asked.

"I'm not safe usin' either one," he said as he closed his eyes. "Got more than one man who wants to kill me."

"You really know how to annoy people, Deeks," Joe said with a grin.

"It's a gift," he responded lightly, and realized he was starting to like this man.

"That's a dangerous gift," he replied. "Better talk MacKenzie into staying around until you can defend yourself."

"Think she'd rather shoot me than defend me," he said with a sad smile. "Already threatened to knock me out."

"She said it was for your own good," Callen laughed.

"Annoyed her, too, did ya?" Joe asked, seeming to enjoy his discomfort.

"She don't let most people get too close to her, but I think she likes you," Callen said kindly. "It upset her to see you in pain. It wouldn't have if she didn't care."

"Musta been those caramels I bought her," he replied softly with a grin.

"No...I think it's the hair," Callen quipped.

"You knew her before this?" Joe asked.

"Had a run in with all three of 'em in town," he replied. "Didn't sound like she thought too highly of me then. None of them do."

"She practically throttled the wounded man wearin' your jacket," Callen told him. "It's how we knew Thurston had you."

"You thought I ran didn't you?" The accusation hanging in the shadows around them.

"It crossed my mind," Callen admitted.

"Sorry to disappoint you," he said bitterly.

"Why don't you leave 'im alone for a while," Joe said quickly, standing to his feet and stepping toward Callen.

"I was wrong, Gentry," Callen said. "You did a good thing. Just sorry it cost you."

"His name's Deeks," Joe said firmly, finally getting a smile out of him.

"I liked that jacket," Deeks said quietly. "An Arapaho girl gave it to me."

"Sam has it in his saddlebag," Callen told him as he threw another log on the fire. "Just in case Mr. Atwood and MacKenzie found you alive."

"Didn't think anyone would," he whispered, shivering at the haunting memories.

"Papa told me he thought you were dead when they got to you," Joe said, easing himself back down into the chair.

"You looked dead," a voice from the deep shadows of the room made him jump and hiss at the grinding pain in his ribs.

MacKenzie stepped into the dim light of the fire, her expression sad and vulnerable, and he wondered how someone so tough could look so lovely in the middle of the night. He closed his eyes until he could breathe easily again and when he opened them, she was standing next to his bed.

"How did you do that?" She asked softly. "How did you walk that far...it must have been agonizing...your feet..."

"I don't know," he said slowly, not wanting to think about it, let alone describe it. "I didn't want him to think he broke me."

"You didn't yield," she said.

"No," he answered. "How'd you know that's what he wanted me to do?"

"You kept screaming it," she said shakily, looking into the fire.

"Hard to listen to," Joe said.

"Sorry," he offered, embarrassed by it all. "I don't remember that."

"You were out of your head," Callen said. "Thought Sam was here to arrest you."

"That's not hard to believe," Deeks whispered, seeing something odd in the way Callen was looking at him.

"You all should be arrested for keeping me awake," Sam called out from the dark. "You need your rest Gentry, or whatever you're callin' yourself and I need mine."

"What did I say Marshal Callen?" Deeks asked, needing to know what he'd unwittingly revealed.

"Nothin' that's of any concern now," Callen answered, poking roughly at the burning logs.

"We'll arrest you in the morning, if that'll make you feel better," Sam mumbled and then promptly began to snore.

"He gets grumpy when he doesn't get enough sleep," Callen said with a smirk. "And that's usually my fault."

"See you at breakfast, Deeks," Joe said as he got up and headed back to bed.

"Getting light outside. Think I'll head out to the barn," Callen said as he slipped on his jacket. "Think about what I said."

"You think I can forget any of it?" he asked sullenly.

"No, and you never will," he said, looking into the darkness of the room. "But you can help us make the bastard pay for what he did."

"Guess I don't have the same faith in the law you do," he replied.

"That from experience?" Callen's eyes narrowed as he waited for his response.

"You could say that," he replied. "None I can remember ever been on my side."

"Maybe you were just on the wrong side," MacKenzie said accusingly as she sat down in the chair.

"I was protectin' myself and someone I cared about," he rushed out, suddenly angry at their scrutiny. "The lawman didn't give a good goddamn what I said. He believed what he wanted to believe and the law had nothin' to do with it."

MacKenzie looked quickly over at Callen, who shook his head, and Deeks realized they knew exactly what he was talking about. In that instant he hated them. He hated that he had unknowingly revealed his own private hell to these judgmental strangers. He felt vulnerable, his heart racing uncontrollably, and he suddenly wanted to be anywhere but cooped up in this place and at their mercy. He gritted his teeth and threw the covers off and swung his legs over the side of the cot before thinking about what he was doing. When his feet hit the floor and he forced himself to stand, the explosive pain was almost his undoing, but he was determined not to scream and determined to walk out of here. The woman looked shocked, and jumped up to grab him, but he tried to push her away.

"Get the hell away from me," he growled through clinched teeth.

"No, you idiot," she said, her eyes flashing with anger as she grappled with him.

"Let the stubborn sonofabitch go, MacKenzie," Callen said softly as he came up beside him. "He won't get far. Too stupid to know when someone is tryin' to help him."

He lunged for the man and managed to get a fistful of his shirt before the pain shot up his legs, leaving him trembling and flush with sweat. He tried to take a swing at him, but he was so weak the marshal simply grabbed his arm and held him.

"Don't do this, Deeks," the woman said softly. "Please get back in bed. You're hurting yourself."

"What the fuck do you care?" He gasped.

"I found you out there," she said as her eyes brightened with tears. "I saw your feet and I know how far you walked. I can't imagine the pain you suffered, but I won't watch you suffer any more. I can't, okay? I can't listen to you scream again, so please don't make me."

He stared at her, noticing for the first time the feel of her hand on his bare chest and he looked down at it. Callen was holding him up, but it was her firm grip on his arm that he felt, so warm against his skin. She was so close he could smell her, the light scent of lavender filling the space between them.

"Then I won't scream," he whispered, as he felt himself sag in the marshal's arms.

"Will you get back in bed?"

"If you sit with me," he managed to say with a soft grin as his vision faded.

"I promise."

He didn't remember them getting him back in bed, but when he became aware, he was shaking and panting, trying to ride out the waves of pain that rolled through his body. Someone was wiping the sweat from his face and he reached up and grasped the person's arm, and the smell of lavender made him open his eyes. She was there as she had promised, sitting beside him, her long dark hair brushing softly across his arm as she leaned over him.

"Did you knock me out?" He asked as he let her go.

"Didn't have to. You fainted," she replied.

"Men don't faint," he said.

"You did."

"I mighta passed out, but I didn't faint," he said, unable to keep a soft smile from his face in spite of the pain.

"Whatever you say, cowboy," she said.

"You laughing at me?" He asked.

"You're not very funny," she replied as she sat back in the chair.

"I can be."

"Guess I'll have to stick around awhile so you can prove it," she said softly.

"I'd like that."

...

...


	11. Chapter 11

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 11_

...

The sharp scream of a hawk startled him awake, and he gripped the edge of the cot, afraid it was one of his own. The soft touch of the morning air on his skin, and the warmth of the sun and the smell of grass and horses gradually eased his mind and he remembered he was safe. It had been Josie's idea to move his pallet outside in the mornings, although getting him here had been a struggle, since he could barely put any weight on his feet. He'd protested the first time Joe had tried to help his father walk him out, reminding him he wasn't strong enough yet, but it had only earned him a sharp retort about him still being crazy in the head. The man was stubborn and tough, but could make him laugh, and he enjoyed their camaraderie.

Each day they placed his bed near the fence so he could visit with Sheila. It was so good to see her and she seemed pleased as well, nickering softly when she saw him. That first day the big mare managed to maneuver her head through the rails to nuzzle at his hair and then pull his blanket off. He scolded her, and she responded by shaking her head and snorting as if scolding him back. The horse stood watch the second day when Josie and MacKenzie washed his filthy hair despite his protests. It was one of the most comforting feelings he had ever experienced, their kind ministrations soothing him into silence. The intimate feel of MacKenzie's long fingers sluicing water through his hair had made his heart race and he'd found it hard to keep a smile off his face. Afterwards he felt shy and slightly embarrassed that he needed their help, but he was sorry when it was over. She had acted a bit embarrassed herself, looking everywhere but at him and he still wondered what that might mean.

Today, Josie propped his head up with lots of pillows and it allowed him to watch George as he did his chores and cared for the horses. He admired the man's touch with them and the horses responded, following him along the fence line as he walked toward the barn. He had a small working corral next to the barn and Deeks never tired of watching him train the horses to cut cattle from a herd. He was a master, hardly moving the reins to get the animals to cut sharply in any direction he wanted them to go. He was a tough old man, too, but so gentle with his son and especially his wife, leaving him a bit melancholy whenever he saw them together. He wanted to trust him, to believe he was as good as he seemed to be, but he found it hard. His experience made him cautious, especially now that he didn't have the strength to defend himself.

"Has George changed much since you first met him?" He asked Josie as she tucked the blankets in around him.

"He's a lot less full of himself," Josie replied, smiling softly, looking off toward the corral as if lost in thought. "After the war...he didn't talk much. Kept to himself when he first got home. Spent a lot of time with the horses."

"But he was still a good man afterwards?" He questioned.

"It did change him, but not for the worst," she shared. "He seemed to appreciate everything more, especially the boys. Christopher was nine and Joe was only seven when he left. When he got back he had a hard time letting them out of his sight. They'd become a bit independent while he was gone, so it was an adjustment for all of them. He found out his little boys didn't take orders as easily as the men he'd commanded in the cavalry. Joe especially. Always askin' 'But why papa?'"

"Did he get angry with them?" He asked, watching her face closely.

"Oh my, yes," she laughed.

"Did he beat them?"

"No, of course not. Why would you think that?" She seemed stunned by his remark and he looked away.

He felt her hand on his arm and he looked back to see her face drawn with sadness and her eyes searching his.

"Is that what your father did to you?" She asked softly.

He turned away, afraid of the scorn he might find in her eyes, but her hand remained on his arm and the gentle pressure was reassuring.

"I know I said some things..." He started. "...when I was unconscious."

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, Marty," she assured him. "You're here to get better. I don't want you to relive something that upsets you."

He laughed softly in amazement at her words. He'd loved his mother, but she wouldn't have said what Josie had just said. If he went someplace with his father and came back with bruises, she would question him at length for the details, and would throw it all back in his father's face when she could. Their fights were terrible, full of loud accusations that usually ended in her being beaten senseless unless he found a way to distract his father. Whether he could or not, he always carried the guilt for what happened to her because he had told the truth. Lying never worked with her. She always knew.

"Has he ever hit you?" He needed to know, and he watched to see if she would lie.

"No, boy, and I'm sorry you had to ask," she replied sadly.

"I shouldn't have said anything," he stuttered. "You've all been so kind to me. I didn't mean to disrespect your hospitality, ma'am."

"You did say some things when you were feverish," she said quietly, gently brushing the hair out of his eyes. "You thought I was your mama, and you told me to run."

"She didn't listen. She never did," he whispered. "She was stubborn like that and I never understood why."

"She sounds like a brave woman," Josie said.

"Was she?" He answered, suddenly filled with anger. "If she'd run I wouldn't have had to shoot the bastard."

"I don't know how old you were, but a woman doesn't have many choices in this world, Marty...especially one with a child," she said. "But, I'm sorry you had to do that."

"I wish I was," he said sharply, fighting the demons that always came out when he thought of his childhood.

"You didn't kill him, though," she said, letting him know just how much he had revealed in his delirium. "How old were you?"

"Just turned eleven," he answered, looking out toward the barn, not wanting to see her response.

"Tell me something good you remember about you and your mama," she urged.

"Why?"

"Sometimes it's less hurtful to remember the bad things. Let's you keep your distance," she said. "But, it's the good ones that'll bring you peace."

He wasn't sure why he was willing to answer her, but he thought for a while, letting his mind backtrack over the years, trying to weed out all the painful memories. His earliest recollections made him smile inwardly, his mind pulling the simple joys from somewhere deep where he'd hidden them, afraid they might dissipate if brought out into the light. Their sweetness had always been shrouded in the overpowering darkness that was his father's wrath, so freeing them was proving difficult. Josie must have intuitively understood, and she took his hand, the warmth helping to anchor him as he waded through the dark memories of his past, searching for those rare moments of true happiness.

"She used to call me 'punkin' when I was real little," he finally said. "I asked her what it meant and she laughed and said it was just her way of saying pumpkin, but I had no idea what that was since I had never seen one. She tried to describe it and we ended up giggling together over that silly name. I still don't know why she called me that."

"When Joe was little he loved mud puddles. Came in one day with his whole head covered in mud...looked just like chocolate pudding," she laughed. "I started callin' him 'puddin' head' after that. Don't tell him I told you that, he'll never forgive me."

"Don't think I'm strong enough to resist usin' that," he laughed.

"Then I'll have to tell him to call you 'punkin'," she warned.

"Not fair, ma'am," he said, smiling at her easy laugh.

"You call me Josie now," she scolded. "We're friends."

"Thank you for that," he said quietly, touched by her kindness.

"We'd like you to stay here with us for as long as you like," she said quietly. "Even after you recover."

"I can't impose anymore than I already have," he replied quickly.

"Nonsense, Punkin," she said lightly, her use of that name jolting him, which she immediately noticed. "I'm sorry...I shouldn't have called you that."

"Yeah, no...it's fine," stumbling over the words. "I don't mind. Makes me feel like a little kid again."

"You tellin' tales on me, Mama?" Joe asked as he sauntered up behind her.

"Oh yeah, Puddin..." Deeks crowed, unable to stop himself.

He hadn't expected to be hit over the head with the man's hat, and it left him laughing and feeling good not to be treated like an invalid.

"No fair, Mama. That's baby stuff," Joe whined.

"You are kind of a big baby, Puddin," He shot back.

"Look who's talkin'...you got all the beautiful women around here waitin' on you hand and foot," Joe responded.

"What can I say...must be my good looks," Deeks said, smiling widely.

"Not with that ugly purple half closed eye and big ol' swollen lip," Joe said. "They just feel sorry for your beat up ass."

"Joseph Zebulon Atwood, where are your manners," Josie said harshly, standing and confronting him with surprising anger.

"Zebulon?" Deeks giggled. "Sounds like a grizzled ol' mountain man."

"Now both of you just stop it," Josie demanded. "Zebulon was my grandfather's name, young man, and he was a fine gentleman."

"You musta had high hopes for Puddin," Deeks said, trying to show deference, but failing badly. "Sorry for your disappointment, ma'am."

"Well, Punkin, don't fret, I have a feelin' my son will give as good as he gets," she said with a quick smile as she turned and walked back to the house.

"Punkin?"

"Your mama don't play fair," Deeks said as Joe grinned at him.

"She used to do this all the time when Chris and me got into it," he said, his voice shading into sadness by the end.

"You must miss 'im," Deeks said as the man slumped into the empty chair.

"Yeah."

"You were lucky to have him for awhile," Deeks said distantly.

"How about you?" Joe asked. "Got any brothers or sisters?"

"Nope. There was just me."

"Chris could be tough on me," he reminisced. "Tougher than Papa even. He was funny though. Loved to play tricks on me and then would run off laughin' until I caught 'im. We'd roughhouse until Mama made us stop. I miss that."

"Musta been nice to have someone to look out for you," Deeks said.

"Chris was a big guy. No one messed with me when we were kids," he replied. "Shoulda seen 'im around girls. He'd walk by 'em and they would all start giggling. Never understood it. Guess they thought he was handsome. I know he thought he was. Kinda reminds me of you and Miss MacKenzie."

"She ain't the gigglin' type," he replied.

"She seems pretty interested in you though," Joe laughed. "She didn't stray too far from your side when you were feverish. The woman even helped wash your hair, you lucky sonofabitch."

"Your mama will get after you if she hears you cussin' like that," Deeks warned.

"You sound just like Chris," Joe said quietly. "He told on me all the time."

"I won't," Deeks promised.

"You like her, don't you?"

"Your mama or Kenzie?"

"Already got a sweet little nickname for her?" Joe grinned. "That's gotta be a sign."

"A sign of what?"

"Come on, Punkin. I've seen the way you look at her," Joe scoffed.

"Won't nothin' come of it," he replied uneasily. "She might not say it, but she still thinks I'm an outlaw."

"Maybe she secretly likes bad boys," Joe said with a growing smile. "She captures 'em and gets to tie 'em up and all. She might have a thing for the rougher sort."

"Never thought of it that way," Deeks laughed quietly. "Not sure I want to be tied up by anyone ever again though, even the beautiful MacKenzie."

"Sorry...didn't mean to remind you of what happened."

"Joe...I want my gun."

"Your worried he might show up here," Joe stated solemnly.

"Aren't you?" Deeks' anger causing his voice to crack.

"I'm hopin' the bastard does just that," Joe replied, his own anger sparking.

"If he does I don't want him to find me layin' out here like a sittin' duck," Deeks said, growing more antsy by the minute at the thought of seeing Thurston again.

The more he thought about it, the harder he was finding it to breathe, silently cursing the fear that was choking him.

"Get me my damn gun, Joe," he demanded. "Please..."

Joe gripped his shoulder tightly and he looked at him, surprised at the fierce look in his eyes.

"We'll fight the bastard together, Deeks," he said roughly. "You're not alone this time. I know he had my brother killed and he needs to answer for that and for what he did to both of us."

"You don't believe the marshals will bring him to justice either," Deeks said.

"Thurston is the outlaw, Deeks. Not you," Joe replied.

"You're right," Deeks said. "He doesn't care about bein' law abiding. He wants whatever he fancies. He believes it's his right. I think he was forced to leave England for something he did there...something like what he did to me. He takes pleasure in hurting people, Joe. He's a sick sonofabitch, and I'm afraid of what he'll do to all of you if he finds me here."

"He'll find out it won't be easy to take you this time," Joe said firmly.

"I'm not so sure about that," Deeks said. "He won't come. He's not man enough to do that. He'll send someone else to do his dirty work, and I'm afraid for all of you if he does. He burned the Muellers out, Joe. I don't want to be the cause of that happenin' to your family."

"You're not thinkin' of leavin' are ya?" Joe asked.

"As soon as I'm able to ride," he replied.

"Well that sure as hell is the dumbest thing I ever heard," Joe said flatly. "I knew you weren't too bright, just by lookin' at ya, but goin' out on your own in the shape you're in is just plain stupid."

Deeks recalled the last time someone had called him stupid. He'd knocked the man out. But the way Joe said it just made him laugh. There was a kindness there that surprised him, as if he wanted to look out for him as his brother had done for him. It was a strangely comforting feeling to be scolded in that way, as if he were part of the family and not just some outlander who had stumbled into their lives.

"You'd be stupid to let me stay," was all he could think of to say, because he knew it to be true.

"The pot callin' the kettle black, as my mama always says," Joe said. "She ain't gonna like it, and Papa will have a few things to say about it."

"You know it's for the best," he said, suddenly sad as he stared out toward the barn.

"Not for you it ain't," Joe replied. "He'll kill you if he catches you."

"He'll have to catch me first," Deeks said with a shy grin.

"Don't do it, Deeks," Joe said quietly. "Stay. I kinda like havin' you around. Besides, it'll break Mama's heart if you leave...Papa's too, though he won't let it show."

"Now who's tellin' tall tales," Deeks scoffed.

"I know it's hard to believe we'd take to a scruffy lookin' mongrel like you," Joe responded lightly. "But once Mama gets you cleaned up and you ain't hobblin' around like an old granny woman, I think you'll fit right in."

"I'll just bring trouble, and you know it," he said, trying to get the man to understand.

"That didn't seem to bother you when you saved my life," Joe said calmly, looking at him with an intensity that was hard to disparage.

"That was different."

"How's that?" Joe said. "You took on my trouble, but you won't let me take on yours?"

"You're a stubborn sonofabitch," he replied.

"That's our family's middle name, Punkin," Joe laughed.

"I'll think about it," he promised.

"If you stick around MacKenzie might start to like you a little better," Joe teased.

"Or she might just shoot me," he replied.

"Probably from long range," Joe said with a knowing grin. "Papa said she was some shot."

"Where is she this mornin'?"

"Said she was gonna do some scoutin'," he replied. "Guess she's expectin' trouble too."

"Never met a woman like 'er," Deeks said, huffing out a short laugh as he shook his head. "Stood up to Jim Hedges without battin' an eye. Put a knife right to his throat."

"Least it wasn't yours," Joe said.

"Had a feelin' she wished it had been," he replied. "Don't really trust her much and I know she don't trust me."

"Maybe that's changed," Joe reasoned. "I watched her help you take some broth when you could barely raise your head. She was gentle with you."

"Don't sound like the same woman, does it" Deeks said softly. "I'm actually kinda surprised by her kindness."

"Maybe she ain't as tough as she pretends."

"Don't believe that, but there might be a side of her she keeps to herself," he replied. "I admire her toughness. She must have quite a story to tell."

"Maybe she'll tell you what it is," Joe said with a grin. "If you're nice and all."

"I'm nice."

"If you say so, Punkin."

"I'd punch you if I could get to you."

"I'd let you if you could."

"I'm gonna enjoy kickin' your butt when I can...puddin' head."

They were both smiling as they teased each other and Deeks realized he was calmer than he'd been since he'd gone to work for Thurston. It was tempting to think about staying here for a while, to be around good people in a place where he didn't have to constantly be on guard, to enjoy this family's company. They actually seemed to care about him and for now, Kenzie was here, and it was hard not to think about spending time with her, finding out if there was a soft center to that prickly exterior. But, as much as he longed for all of that, he knew he couldn't stay. These people had saved his life, had tended him when he was so low and so broken he had given up hope of surviving. He wouldn't put them in danger.

Thurston would discover he had survived and he knew the man would never let that go. It was an affront to his nature. He would send men to find him and this would probably be the first place he'd look. Knowing what that would mean, his chest tightened as he thought of each member of this family in turn.

He couldn't describe his feelings for Josie, but they ran deep, her unexpected tender care touching, a rare gift he cherished. The thought of Thurston's hired killers anywhere near her was unthinkable to him. Joe would fight for him. He knew that. If he could choose a man to be his brother, he could find no finer man than Joe Atwood. And then there was George. He was a complicated man, and he wasn't sure how he felt about him, always wary of fathers because of his own. He knew this man was different, had come for him in spite of the danger, but he was simply repaying a debt, so he didn't take that personally. He was strong and not to be trifled with, but also kind to his family and he respected that. The man had shown him kindness as well, something that had surprised him, even after he'd discovered who he worked for. The man had tried to convince him he had a good heart, but he wasn't sure he could believe that, no matter what he'd done. George had repaid the debt he owed him for saving Joe, and now he would repay all their kindness by leaving them in peace.

They both heard the warning shout and Joe jumped to his feet, turning to see MacKenzie racing her big gray gelding toward the barn. She pulled him up sharply and leaped from the saddle, her rifle in hand.

"Riders comin'," she yelled again as she slapped the rump of her horse to send him into the barn.

"Get me my gun, Joe," Deeks cried out as the man ran for the house.

He struggled to sit up and swung his legs over the side of the bed as his heartbeat thumped in his ears. If he was going to die today, he wasn't going to die lying down. Gritting his teeth, he endured the sudden, almost debilitating pain as he rose to his feet and made a grab for the fence, holding himself up as best he could. He hated his physical weakness, and felt his rage growing that he had brought Thurston's wrath down on these kind people.

"Deeks!"

Joe's shout made him focus and he turned in time to catch the rifle thrown his way, leaning heavily against the fence as he cocked the Winchester. He looked up to see Josie with a rifle of her own come out onto the side porch with a look of firm determination on her face.

"There's no cover here, brother," Joe said breathlessly as he reached him. "I'll help you up to the porch with Mama."

"She shouldn't be out here, Joe," he said as the man got his good shoulder up under his arm.

"You try tellin' her that," Joe smiled as they hobbled toward the steps.

He was shaking by the time Joe got him up on the porch and lowered him down behind an overturned table next to Josie. She handed him a box of shells, and then patted him on the arm before turning to site her rifle on the nine oncoming riders. Joe grabbed a box of shells and jumped off the porch, sliding down behind a stack of hay bales, quickly loading his carbine as the riders spread out.

"He was a sergeant in the cavalry for a few years," Josie said, sounding quite proud. "Fought the Comanche and Apaches."

"You should be inside, ma'am," he said, worried for her.

"You think it was easy homesteading this spread, boy?" She asked. "We were raided time and again by the Sioux and Cheyenne. I can handle a rifle. You just look after yourself."

"Yes ma'am," he answered with a quick grin.

The loud report of MacKenzie's rifle sent one man tumbling from his horse, and the others pulled up, milling in a dust filled circle as their apparent leader held both hands in the air.

"We just come for a lost man," the man yelled. "No need for anyone to get hurt now."

"Who you looking for?" George called out from the door of the barn.

"Name's Max Gentry," he shouted back. "Boss sent us out to find him. Wants to make sure he's okay is all."

"No one here by that name," George said, genial in a hard sort of way. "Now, be on your way. There's been trouble in these parts and we aren't in a real trustin' mood right now."

"Ya wouldn't mind us waterin' our horses now would ya?" The leader asked reasonably. "Kind of a warm day."

"You just crossed a creek, son" George replied. "Plenty of water there for you and your horses."

"You ain't soundin' too friendly, mister," the man said gruffly.

"Didn't mean to," he replied. "Now git. Your wounded man looks to be needin' some help."

"We work for Mr. Thurston, mister," the man said as he motioned for his men to spread out. "You don't want to rile him up."

"You're on my land now," George replied. "You go back and tell him to stay off it."

"Like I said, no need for anyone to get themselves shot over a man like Gentry," the rider said. "He ain't worth it."

"Then why is Thurston so interested in him?"

"They had a disagreement of sorts," the man said. "Boss just wants to settle things."

"Can't help ya," George replied.

"Sure you ain't seen him?" The man said. "Blond. Wears it longish. Rides a big bay mare. Woulda been in pretty poor shape."

"If I see him, I'll be sure and send him on his way," George replied.

Deeks was quickly tiring as his body throbbed with growing pain. When he turned to lean his back against the table, he saw four men making their way along the back fence where he'd been lying only minutes earlier. Before he could get his rifle up, a bullet splintered the top edge of the table next to Josie's head and Deeks felt nothing but black rage. He lunged to shield Josie and shot back, taking down the shooter, and firing on the men as they ran toward the house. Bullets whistled through the air around them and kicked up splinters as they tore into the soft wood of the porch. Josie tried to push him aside and return fire, but he grabbed her and dove for the edge of the house, crying out in agony as he fell against the wall, his bandaged feet unable to support him.

Gunfire erupted from the riders in the meadow, the men shouting as they urged their horses to charge. He could hear MacKenzie firing round after round, but it was the soft jingle of spurs as someone made their way along the porch that held his attention. He felt Josie's firm grip on his shoulder and he looked up as she eased up to stand over him, her rifle at the ready. She nodded, and he threw himself out from the edge of the wall, landing on his side as he fired while Josie leaned around the corner and sent a bullet into the gullet of one of the men. They fired back and Deeks cursed as Josie cried out, but he had no time to help her before two men were on him.

"You sure are a tough man to kill, Max," Bonner growled as he ripped the rifle from his hands. "Come along easy like or I'll have Jenkins kill this little lady."

He struggled to see Josie, but a solid kick in the ribs had him gasping for air.

"You leave that boy alone," Josie hissed, and Deeks smiled with relief at the woman's toughness and then charged Bonner with every ounce of strength he had left.

They tumbled off the porch and Deeks managed to get in a few punches before a fist to the jaw sent him reeling. The threat to Josie made him mad with rage, but he wasn't going to let Thurston take him again and he scrambled to his feet, ignoring the mind numbing pain as he grappled with Bonner. A solid punch in the back dropped him to his knees, Jenkins coming up behind him to wrap an arm around his neck, choking him into submission. His vision dimmed, but he managed to turn enough to see Josie lying unconscious on the porch and he knew he needed help.

"Joe!" He screamed out as loudly as he could over the thunderous roar of the ongoing gun battle.

Bonner hit him across the mouth, but he yelled Joe's name again, spewing blood all over the man's face. Jenkins' body suddenly jerked and a soft gurgle was all he heard before the man's arm dropped away as he fell forward, taking them both to the ground. He could only watch as Bonner pulled his pistol, but the man had no chance to bring it up before blood blossomed across his midsection as Joe walked calmly toward him firing repeatedly.

"You okay?" He asked, shoving Jenkins' body off of him with his boot.

"Your mama, Joe," he whispered. "They shot her..."

Joe turned away without another word and rushed to the porch. Deeks struggled to his hands and knees and saw that Bonner was still alive, his eyes wide with pain.

"You rank bastard," he growled as he crawled toward the gun lying between them.

The man started clawing for the weapon, but Deeks managed to reach it first, pulling it to his chest as he struggled to his feet. He stood looking down at the man who had helped Thurston torture him and who was now at his mercy and it made him laugh coldly.

"Don't feel so good to be helpless does it?" He asked without sympathy. "You were gonna kill everyone here weren't you?"

Seeing the truth in his eyes, he pointed the gun and shot him in the head.

"Deeks?"

Her voice cut through the numbness clouding his mind, but he was afraid to turn around, afraid that the people who had cared for him might have died because of him and he found he had no courage to face that. She took the gun from his hand and he became aware that the sound of gunfire had ceased, and that he could no longer stand. She caught him, holding him up as she helped him back to the cot, easing him down without a word and he looked up, his eyes blurring with dizziness and sudden tears.

"Is Josie dead?" Barely able to get the words out.

"She was hit in the arm," MacKenzie said softly. "She'll be all right."

"I have to go," struggling to stand once again. "They were gonna kill them all because of me."

It didn't take much strength for her to hold him in place, but she did it gently and then sat down beside him.

"Everyone's okay," MacKenzie assured him.

"You too?"

"Yeah...I'm good."

He nodded and stared at the scene on the porch as George gathered his wife in his arms and carried her into the house. Joe looked briefly in his direction, but strode quickly from the porch and headed out toward the meadow, leaving Deeks feeling empty and full of guilt.

"How many got away?"

"Three, I think," she said, her hand still resting on his shoulder as if he might bolt.

"Thurston knows I'm here for sure now," he said, wiping some of the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. "He won't let this go. He'll be back and I can't be here when he comes or he'll kill 'em to get to me. You too, if you're still here."

"I never run from a fight," MacKenzie said firmly as her eyes flashed in defiance.

"You think I'm runnin'?"

"Even if you leave, he might kill 'em all anyway," she replied.

"You think they still want me here after what just happened?" He said with no question in his mind.

"You'll have to ask them that," she responded. "But I don't think they blame you."

"You really believe that?" He said, running a trembling hand up through his hair.

"They're strong-willed people and they've all taken quite a likin' to you," she said quietly.

"Josie got shot defending me," he said. "How do I live with that? How do George or Joe forgive me for that?"

"George coulda given you up, but he didn't," she told him. "He was willin' to fight to keep them from getting to you. Doesn't that prove something?"

"That was before his wife almost died," he said without energy.

His head snapped up when George slammed out of the house, a thunderous look of rage on his face. He feared very few men, but he felt weak in the knees as this man stalked toward him. He felt the need to stand and face him, and MacKenzie seemed to understand that and helped him to his feet where he stood awaiting judgment. The big man never even paused, just walked up and wrapped him in a powerful hug, taking his breath away and stunning him completely.

"Josie says you saved her life, son," the man choked out as he held him. "She's askin' for ya."

Deeks almost collapsed when he released him, not sure if it was because he was suddenly exhausted from pain or because the man's words and actions were so unexpected. George caught him as he stumbled, slinging his arm over his shoulder and holding him up.

"Did they hurt you, boy?" His face now a mask of concern.

"Not bad, sir."

"He thinks he should leave," MacKenzie told him, taking some of his weight as they started toward the house.

"We're not lettin' you do that, son," George said, stopping and putting a hand on his chest as he stood solidly beside him. "I know what guilt feels like, Marty, and I can see it in your eyes. It shows you care, son. You want to keep us from harm, but think of the guilt this family would carry if we let you go and Thurston got to you. Don't make us live with that. We'll stand by you if you stand by us. That's what a family does, son, and we think of you as part of ours now. Blood's been spilled. Yours and ours. In a common cause. That makes us family in my book. I hope it does in yours."

The man's sentiments struck him hard and he searched his eyes for the truth of his words. They were inconceivable to him, but the man's eyes held no lies and his own misted at the commitment he found there.

"But I'm just a stranger," he whispered.

"Not anymore, son. Not anymore."

...

...


	12. Chapter 12

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 12_

...

Their dinner had been a cold one and filled mostly with silence. George wouldn't allow Josie to do anything and she had bristled at her special treatment, but MacKenzie thought she saw a soft smile now and then as her husband and son fussed over her. Max Gentry, who she now found herself reluctantly calling Deeks, kept his distance even after hearing the welcoming words from George. He seemed awkward with his new acceptance, as if he still couldn't believe they actually wanted him around.

The afternoon had been spent with rotating guard duty, all of them fearful of another attack, especially Deeks, who had kept watch outside of Josie's room as she slept, sitting on the floor just outside with his back against the wall, his Colt pistol cradled in the crook of his arm. George and Joe found him asleep there after burying all the bodies and had hauled him to his feet and helped him to the second bed in Joe's room. He had protested that he hadn't been sleeping, but Joe had simply laughed and called him a piss poor liar, among other choice names, and he had actually looked ashamed, his face taking on the look of a chastised child. She had found the look somewhat endearing, which surprised her. When he smiled sheepishly like that, he was quite handsome, almost charming, but she knew his dark anger still lay just below the surface. She had seen him shoot the man called Bonner without flinching, and even though the man would have died anyway, she had been chilled by the coldness of the act. It was tough to reconcile the two images in her head, one caring and protective and the other hard and remorseless.

As darkness gathered, Joe had taken up his guard position in the hayloft of the barn and George had gently guided Josie to their room. MacKenzie had taken the cot by the fire, even though Deeks had protested, but George explained she would be spelling Joe sometime after midnight, and he had nodded his agreement. The man was clearly exhausted, and it wasn't hard to see several new bruises he'd received fighting Bonner and his men. She was impressed that with Josie's help he had managed to fight off four hired guns, especially considering he could barely walk and his weakened body was still covered in massive bruises and scratches.

She was finding it hard to sleep and got up to stoke the fire, her body still tense and her mind on her trip into Saratoga Springs in the morning. She needed to let Callen and Sam know about the attack, but was concerned about leaving the Atwoods and Deeks too, if she was being honest with herself. George was the only one who was completely healthy, although judging from the morning fight, being injured wouldn't stop Joe or Deeks and possibly not even Josie, if Thurston sent more men. She was growing fond of them all, even Deeks, but her feelings for him were complicated and were keeping her off balance, which she decidedly didn't like.

The soft cry in the dark startled her, and she listened intently to see if he would settle. He had suffered nightmares the first couple of days he'd been here, but after the morning he'd had she wasn't surprised to hear him in the throes of another. Warming her hands in front of the low fire, she argued with herself over whether she should check on him. Then she heard him mumble her name, and moved hesitantly toward his room, unsure, but curious all the same. She paused in the doorway, willing herself to see him in the almost pitch black room. She could hear him thrashing about on the bed and was suddenly worried they had missed some new injury he hadn't told them about. He would be stubborn like that, so she felt her way to his bedside and managed to light the small lantern on the table by his bed.

Sweat glistened on his face, and his hands were tightly gripping the blanket as he moved restlessly beneath it. His eyes were squeezed shut and he was panting and murmuring nonsensical words as he had the first day they'd found him.

"Ssshhhh," she whispered softly, smoothing his wild hair back from his face, feeling herself flush as she did. "You're safe. Just rest."

When she sat down next to him, he awoke with a cry and his eyes were wild until he saw her, then the turbulence faded and he became still, staring at her with soft blue eyes. She rested her hand on his shoulder and her heart suddenly fluttered at the warmth of his skin so she quickly pulled it back. He reached out and took her hand, and she wasn't sure how to respond. Neither one said a word.

He was still breathing heavily, the movement of his bare chest drawing her attention and causing her to flush even more. She tried to pull her hand from his grasp, but he wouldn't let her, his eyes searching her face as he pulled her hand down to his chest, covering it with his own. Unable to catch her breath, she held it, letting herself ride her emotions and her unsettling feelings of want. When he lifted her hand to his lips and softly kissed her fingers, she felt her eyes fill and her body trilled in response. His strong hand moved along her bare forearm and she began to tremble, knowing she should stop this, but unwilling to, her heart racing with excitement and a deep need. She closed her eyes so the only thing she sensed was the touch of his long fingers moving gently over her skin. She knew she shouldn't, but she ghosted her other hand across his chest, opening her eyes to watch him as she did. His tongue darted out and licked his lips and she felt his muscles ripple beneath her hand, but her eyes never left his face. There was longing there and her breath hitched as she stared into his stormy eyes.

The stirring deep within her was something she hadn't felt in a very long time, and when he smiled, her restraint weakened even as she felt a hint of anger that he could move her like this. The darkness of the shadows seemed to close in around them and she felt an urgent need to touch him. He seemed to sense it and pulled her closer until her body was flush against his, her forearms resting on his chest as he tucked her loose hair behind her shoulder. He stroked her cheek and it sent a wave of fire down through her and she tried to pull away, but he held her tight against him. She focused on his mouth, his lips slightly open as he smiled softly. She wanted to kiss him. Sensing that too, he lifted his head and lightly touched his lips to hers, his mouth hovering there, his warm breath drawing her in for more. She press her lips against his and his mouth opened to cover hers completely, sending liquid fire coursing between her breasts and down into her belly. She couldn't control herself as she quivered with want and pure excitement. She felt his arms embrace her and she took his face in her hands as she pressed herself against his body. She could feel his heart beating against her as their kiss deepened, and she wanted to lose herself, but her mind was sending out a warning and she broke away and sat up quickly, her fingers pressed against her mouth where his lips had been. She licked at the taste of him that still lingered and she saw him do the same, their eyes locked on each other as their breath came in soft gasps.

"Are you afraid?" he whispered.

"No," her eyes flashing defiantly.

"I wasn't questioning your courage," he said seriously. "I want to touch you, but not if you don't want me to."

His comment flustered her and she looked off into the darkness, unsure as to what she wanted, but not willing to leave the warmth of his body or give up what she was feeling. He touched her lips with the tips of his fingers and then slid them down her throat to the open collar of her shirt. She quivered slightly as she felt him undo the first button, swallowing hard as his fingers ghosted against the top of her breasts as he undid the second. She could hardly breathe when he unbuttoned the third and waited to see what he would do, feeling slightly skittish, yet yearning for his touch. His own breathing was becoming heavy and she could feel the muscles of his abdomen tighten as he slid his hand inside her shirt. She unwittingly moaned as his hand closed over her uncovered breast, and she bit her lip as his thumb began to move lightly across her nipple.

"You're so damn beautiful," he whispered as his other hand slipped inside her shirt and slid around her back, slowly drawing her closer.

She hadn't let anyone touch her like this in a very long time and she felt herself succumbing to the gentle movement of his hands. The release it brought made her sink languidly into his arms and he pulled her down to his chest, slipping the shirt off her shoulder and exposing her breast to the light of the lantern. When his mouth closed over the tip of her breast she bucked against him, losing all reticence as her body sang with sweet fire. His tongue circled her nipple, his warm lips suckling her, making her whimper uncontrollably as her body hummed in response. As exhilarating as it was, she began to fear the power it gave him over her and she started to tense and tried to regain some control. The passion she felt was too strong, and she began to mentally berate herself for giving into it. She wanted no man to be able to weaken her simply by the touch of his fingers and a maddening tongue and lips that made her melt. She couldn't let herself give in to him this easily.

She suddenly pushed herself away from him and pulled her shirt closed, stumbling to her feet and pressing her back to the wall. His eyes went wide with surprise, and he reached out to her.

"Don't," she said. "I can't do this. Not with you."

Her words had cut him deeply. She could see that in his eyes, which flashed first with anger and then softened into hurt before they went ice cold. He turned away from her then, groaning as he rolled onto his side.

"It won't happen again, Miss Blye," he said without energy. "I forgot who I was dealing with."

His words chilled her and then made her angry and she quickly blew out the lantern and hurried from the room. She stood trembling in front of the fire, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of her shirt. The feel of his mouth on her breast lingered and she tenderly touched her nipple, which was still firm and tingling. She let out a ragged breath, mentally cursing her own cowardice and fear of letting anyone close, especially that close. He had been gentle and she had been aroused as much as he had been, and she struggled to understand her own reluctance to allow herself to respond. As much as she wanted to deny she was attracted to him, her body wouldn't let her. The effect he had on her remained, her body still pulsing with want as she slowly buttoned her shirt, trying to banish the feel of his hands from her mind.

He had asked if she was afraid, and in spite of her denial, she wondered if it might not be true. She had given herself to a man once, long ago. Wholeheartedly. She had been wild with him, throwing her usual caution to the wind because he excited her. She had seen the lust in his eyes, and had let her own rule her body and her mind and it had cost her. She had trusted him, had convinced herself that she loved him, unsure now if she even knew what that meant. He'd hurt her badly, mentally and physically, laughing at her when he left, trampling her once trusting nature into dust. She refused to let any man do that to her again, especially a man like Max Gentry. The outward gentleness she'd witnessed tonight masked a darkness she could sense beneath that easy smile and she wouldn't let herself be drawn in simply because her body craved release. She had sympathized with him because of what Thurston had done to him, but that was all it was. That was all she would let it be and she would keep her distance to insure she didn't fall prey to any feelings his physical closeness might cause.

She would ride for Saratoga Springs at daybreak and stay there. The marshals could handle the rest. She was done here. Done with the enticing stranger who muddled her common sense. She had helped to save his life, but she wanted no further entanglement. He was dangerous for her. She could feel it. He didn't care for her either, he had just seen an opportunity to slake his own passionate thirst, and she had almost let him. Never again. She could take care of her own needs. She didn't need him. She didn't want him. Despite the simmering fire of their encounter that still pooled deep in her belly, she could leave him behind without another thought. She could and she would.

...

"Gettin' kinda of an early start," George said softly as he hung a bucket of oats in his buckskin's stall.

"Yep," she replied, cinching up the saddle with a hard jerk.

"Joe's gonna make flapjacks," he said as he came to stand on the other side of her horse. "They ain't half bad and you're gonna need somethin' fillin' for the long ride."

"Not hungry," she replied, irritated by the interruption.

"Not very talkative either."

She ignored the comment and finished saddling her gray, eager to be as far away as quickly as she could. No way was she going to sit down at a table with that man. She'd rather go hungry than see him right now, and for her that was saying a lot.

"Josie's got biscuits on," he finally said. "I could bring you a couple with some bacon inside. Should tide you over till ya reach town."

Her stomach growled at the mention of food, but she didn't want to wait, and swung up into the saddle without a reply. She would have ridden out if George hadn't stepped in front of her horse and put a hand on his nose. The big gray groaned and seemed to melt into his touch, lowering his head as the man scratched between his ears.

"Wanna tell me what got you spooked?" He asked quietly, his eyes on her horse.

"Just anxious to be on my way...if you don't mind."

She knew she sounded rude, but her anger was growing and her need to distance herself from Gentry was making her antsy.

"You're not comin' back, are ya?" He stated, sounding a little sad.

"No, I'm not," she acknowledged, looking beyond him to the open door of the barn. "Please say my goodbyes to your wife and son."

"And to Deeks?" He asked.

She gathered the reins and kicked her gelding, urging him past the man because she had no idea what to say. She knew if she said anything it would give her away and she had no intention of letting the old man ask more intrusive questions or become privy to what had occurred. It was none of his business. Besides, she had seen the bond developing between the Atwoods and Gentry and she knew they would take his side. She just hoped he wouldn't break their hearts when they discovered he wasn't the man he let them see. But, that wasn't her problem. If they wanted to risk their hearts on that kind of man, that was their decision. She was wiser. She knew she was right to get free of him.

"Take care of yourselves," she cautioned as she rode through the door and headed for town.

She wasn't far from the ranch when she urged her gray into a slow canter, winding her way around the pines until she hit the open grasslands. She dug her spurs into him and shouted for him to run and he lengthened his stride until they were racing hell-bent across the flat ground toward the base of the hills bordering Beaver Creek. It was exhilarating and her mind started to clear as she focused on the low hills looming up ahead. This was the freedom she sought. Nothing to stop her from being who she was and doing what she wanted.

When she finally reached the scattering of low trees and willows along the creek she slowed the gelding to a trot until she found a place to cross. Pulling the big gray to a stop, she dismounted and took in a deep breath, leading him into the water so he could drink his fill. She knelt and took off her brown leather gloves and trailed her fingers through the cold, clear water. The cold made her fingers tingle and she flashed back to the night before and stood hurriedly to her feet. She wanted no reminder of what she had felt when he touched her, so she bent over and scooped up a handful of icy water, splashing it across her face and throat, shivering briefly as rivulets of cold water trickled down between her breasts.

"Damn it to hell," she shouted. "Why can't I get that idiot out of my head."

Her horse jerked his head up and snorted, moving away from her outburst.

"Sorry, Trooper," she said softly, angry with herself once again.

Yanking on her riding gloves, she leaped into the saddle and urged the big gray across the wide creek. Pulling her flat brimmed hat down low over her eyes, she guided him along the base of the hills, letting her mind recall yesterday's battle in all its detail. She went over it again and again, formulating what she was going to tell Callen and Sam, maintaining focus until there was no room for any thought of Max Gentry.

...

She stopped just inside the door of the hotel dining room, the smell of food making her salivate. She was starving, but when she spotted Callen and Sam, she ignored her growling stomach and made her way to their table.

"You come to steal my food?" Sam said with a wide smile, and then pushed the remains of his hash toward her.

"The Atwoods were raided," her words rushed out as she grabbed for a fork and shoveled in a couple of mouthfuls of Sam's breakfast.

"Thurston," Sam snarled.

"Everyone okay?" Callen asked, his eyes intense and his expression troubled.

"Josie was wounded," MacKenzie said between bites. "Not bad."

"How many were there?" Callen asked as he signaled for the bill of fare.

"Twelve, maybe thirteen," she replied as Sam pushed his coffee towards her. "Didn't really have time to count. Most of 'em came from the creek, but four went around the back of the house. They were after Gentry."

"Did they make it in the house?" Sam asked.

"No. Gentry and Josie took two of 'em down on the porch," she replied flatly. "And Joe got the other two."

"Deeks couldn't even get outa bed when we left. Let alone stand and fight," Callen said, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"Josie said he saved her life," she said begrudgingly, staring down at the plate of hash in front of her, recalling the harrowing final moments. "One of the men was Bonner, the guy we met in the general store with Hedges and Gentry. He was with Thurston when Gentry was tortured."

"What happened?" Sam asked. "Something shook you up."

"Joe told me Bonner and another man had Gentry on his knees. He yelled for Joe and he shot 'em both," she recounted as her anger mounted. "Bonner was lying on the ground next to Gentry when I came runnin'. He was already gut shot, Callen, but Gentry managed to get to his feet and then just shot 'em in the head."

"You blame him for that?" Sam asked.

"It was cold-blooded," she snapped.

"Those men mighta been there for Gentry, but they would have killed you all," Callen said quietly. "You know that."

"He's got all of you believin' he's turned into some sorta saint," she ranted. "But he worked for Thurston. He's no different than the men who attacked the Muellers and the Atwoods."

The two marshals looked at each other as she fumed, and she could see the question in their eyes and realized she might have revealed too much of her unsettled anger with the man.

"I need to see to gettin' a room," she said quickly, and started to rise.

"What's going on, MacKenzie?" Callen asked as he grabbed her arm.

"He's a faker. He wants everyone to believe he's something he's not," she said vehemently. "The Atwoods are treating him like the son they lost and it's gonna come back to haunt 'em. He's dangerous."

"This isn't about the Atwoods, is it?" Sam said gently. "Did he try something with you? Cause if he did, I'll ride out there and kick his butt."

"Nothin' I couldn't handle, Sam, but thanks," MacKenzie said, genuinely surprised at his support.

"What did he do?" Sam asked coldly, his big hand curling into a fist.

"I can take care of myself," she snapped, standing and turning away, afraid to say anything more.

"MacKenzie?" Callen called out as he followed her out of the room. "Did any of Thurston's men get away?"

"Three."

"He'll hit 'em again," Callen said and she nodded. "Is Gentry in any shape to help if they do? There's only four of 'em and George is the only one who isn't wounded."

"That's why I came," she said. "They'll need help if they're attacked again."

"But you won't go back to help," Callen stated, his eyes penetrating. "Is that because of Deeks, or Gentry as you've taken to callin' him again?"

"I don't ever want to see that man again," she replied. "I don't trust him. Like I said, he's pretending to be a good man, but he's not."

"He tried to warn the Muellers and he fought to protect the Atwoods," Callen said kindly. "Doesn't that prove something to you?"

She couldn't answer that and it was frustrating, so she ignored it and walked away. Callen wouldn't let it go and leaned against the front desk as she signed the register, staring at her intently, which was very irritating.

"I watched you with him, MacKenzie," he said softly. "You care about him, and don't deny it, cause we both know you'd be lyin'."

"I don't need the aggravation," she said evenly.

"Is that what you call it," Callen said with a smirk. "You let him get too close for comfort?"

"Don't stick your nose where it don't belong," her voice strangled, mad that he had somehow managed to see right through her.

"Guess it's easier to forget about someone if you make yourself believe they aren't worthy of your affection," he said quietly.

"You don't know what you're talkin' about," she huffed, grabbing the key to her room.

"You're probably right," he acknowledged, stepping directly in front of her. "But I saw your face when he was ragin' with fever. You were worried. You care about that man. You tracked 'im after Thurston took 'im because you feel something for him, and I think you still do."

"Get outa my way, Marshal Callen."

"You accused him of lyin' about who he is," he replied without moving. "I think you're lyin' to yourself."

She tried to walk around him, but he took her arm and held her in place. She could knock him out if she really wanted to, but he was one of the few friends she had, so she steeled herself to listen.

"If you're lookin' for a perfect human being you won't find 'im, especially in this part of the country," he said softly. "Men out here have lived rough lives. They come out here to escape a lot of things, even who they are or used to be. I'm a US Marshal, but there are things in my past that you don't want to know. If you did, you'd write me off faster than you have Deeks. You shot down the men who killed your parents. I don't know the particulars, but I'm bettin' it wasn't exactly a fair fight. Don't be so quick to judge, MacKenzie. You're not perfect either."

He released her arm and brushed past her and she was shaking as he did. His words had stunned her and her eyes filled with sudden tears, but she refused to acknowledge the truthfulness of his assessment. She wiped furiously at her unwanted tears, and felt an overpowering need to get out of the stifling hotel. She didn't need any of them. She'd been on her own for a long time and she wasn't about to let anyone tell her what she was feeling. She stormed out and headed for the stables, determined to get as far away from Wyoming as she could. She'd been here long enough.

She was breathing hard when she leaned over the stall where Trooper calmly stood munching on some oats. His contentment calmed her and she reached out to stroke his sleek neck.

"I'd know that horse anywheres," a deep voice said from behind her. "Hello, MacKenzie."

She turned to stare as a tall man sauntered in from the back. He had a black brushy mustache that almost covered his upper lip, and a patch of hair below his bottom one. He was dressed as he always was in a white collarless shirt buttoned up tight to his throat with a fully buttoned dark gray vest draped with a pocket watch and a long black jacket. His pants were gray with black stripes, neatly tucked inside his knee high black boots. He was sporting a new hat though, a tall black derby that he took off as he approached, bowing slightly in greeting. He still wore two matching pistols and she remembered just how fast he was on the draw and how dangerously violent he had always been. As he came up close, there was nothing but coldness in his hazel eyes, but he smiled as he swept out his hand toward the Pawnee scout he rode with.

"You remember Curly?"

MacKenzie nodded briefly in the man's direction, not wanting to take her eyes off Black Jack Wallace for long. She had come in contact with a lot of hardened men, but everyone paled in comparison to this man, who had a well known reputation for killing anyone who tried to cheat him at faro.

"What brings you here, Jack?" She finally asked.

"Been hired by one of the big ranchers," he replied as he reached in front of her to stroke her gray's nose. "Funny, ain't it, how things work out? Get hired to help with the rustlers around here and come to find out the man causin' trouble is the killer I been searchin' for all these years. You seen 'im?"

"Who?" She had gone rigid as he spoke, knowing she was on dangerous ground.

"Max Gentry," he said, the smile instantly gone, leaving his face stone cold. "I told you how he killed my brother. Don't tell me you don't remember. Ain't smart to lie to me."

"I have no reason to lie to you, Jack," she said, giving him a tight, fake smile. "Just been busy with my own huntin'."

"Who ya lookin' for now?" He asked.

"Couple a small time stagecoach robbers," she lied. "Not a big reward, but keeps me and Trooper eatin'."

"You still ain't willin' to sell me this fine lookin' animal?" He asked as he continued to stroke the big gelding.

"Not for sale," she said, trying to keep the nervousness from her voice.

"You come across Gentry, you tell me, ya hear?" He said coldly, reaching out to finger the collar of her shirt. "This Thurston fella wants him almost as bad as me. Told me he dragged him all over the prairie. Woulda like ta have seen that. Thought he'd killed him, but my luck didn't hold on that account. Cain't trust nobody to do what needs to be done, but yourself. I catch 'im, me and Curly will see he don't walk away."

"Well, good luck findin' 'im," she said as she turned and prepared to saddle Trooper.

The man had his gun out and pointed at her temple before she could do anything, and her eyes flashed as she tried to stare him down.

"What the hell are you doin'?" She asked angrily. "Thought we were friends."

"Don't have none," he said as Curly took her gun and slid the Sharps out of the scabbard on her saddle. "Funny thing about men. They remember horses and they remember weapons. One of Thurston's men remembered both your gray and that slick Sharps rifle of yours. I told Thurston you was pretty and kinda fiery. He wants to meet ya."

"Not interested," she said as she reached for her saddle. "So unless you're gonna shoot me, get the hell away from me."

He backhanded her hard and she felt her lip split, but she lashed out immediately with the heel of her boot, catching him in the knee. He grunted in surprise, but rushed her, his hand clutching her throat as he brought the barrel of his pistol down hard on the top of her shoulder, shoving her into the railing of the stall. She cried out at the pain and fought for a breath, but his big hand tightened around her neck, and she clawed at his arm, kicking him as hard as she was able.

"Don't wanna knock you senseless, but I will," he growled, his lips hovering above hers as he choked her, rubbing his dark pistol against her cheek.

Her vision was dimming, but she continued to struggle until Curly grabbed her wrists and pulled her arms behind her back, tying them tightly and leaving her vulnerable to the vicious man in front of her. She was scared now and she hated that feeling. He was breathing hard as he holstered his gun, and a thin smile was barely visible beneath his mustache. The Pawnee pulled her back against him, his rough hands painfully squeezing her arms.

"Always wanted to loosen that hair of yours," Wallace said as he pulled her braid over her shoulder and began to undo it. "Maybe then you'd look like a real woman."

His hand was still on her throat and she began to panic at his rough treatment, seeing no sign of gentleness as he combed his fingers through her unraveled hair. He yanked her to him, and he smelled of whiskey and cheap cigars as his tongue licked the blood from her lip.

"Used ta doubt you had all the attributes of a woman," he said in a low, breathy voice. "Let's see what she's got under that denim, Curly."

He released her throat and she gasped for air, and tried to yell out, but Wallace slammed a fist into her stomach and she slumped against the Indian. He laughed as she fought to catch her breath, but when the man put his hands on her, she froze. There was no gentleness, he simply tore open half her shirt and grabbed her breast, pushing her up against the Pawnee whose breath she could feel on her neck. He spoke in his native tongue and Black Jack Wallace nodded, but didn't take his eyes off her.

"Curly reminded me that Thurston might not like you all bruised up," he said. "He's payin' me extra for you, darlin'. He might like ta have a go at you hisself. Didn't see no woman round his place."

He grabbed a fistful of her dark hair and pulled her face close. She tried to stifle a moan as he kissed her, but she couldn't, her mind flashing back to the tender touch of Gentry's hands and the soft kiss they shared, the contrast not lost on her. She pushed against Wallace and when he pulled away she spit in his face, enraged by his treatment.

"You are a fiery little bitch," he laughed, wiping the spittle from his face.

The slap was almost nonchalant, but it was hard and left her reeling and dizzy. He lifted her breast in his dirty hand, his thumb toying absently with her nipple as he stared at it with dead looking eyes. She would kill him if she got the chance and feel nothing afterwards. She began to understand what Gentry had felt when he shot Bonner. Some men deserved killing and the man in front of her was one of them.

"Maybe that so-called English gentleman will throw me the left overs. Or maybe I'll just take 'em," he said as he pulled her shirt back together. "Gag 'er and tie her on my horse, Curly. We'll leave her gray in case someone comes lookin' to find her."

"I'm gonna kill you," she choked out before a gag was shoved roughly into her mouth.

"You can try, darlin," he said. "But I intend ta have a little fun with you before you get the chance. I gotta feelin' that arrogant little English shit might just like ta watch."

...

...


	13. Chapter 13

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 13_

...

He allowed Joe to help him out to the side porch, but he remained sullen and snapped at him, feeling out of sorts as his mind lingered on the hurtful words MacKenzie had hurled at him last night. He eased down into the chair, his mood somewhat mollified by the fact that he was able to put weight on his healing feet without too much pain. They were still incredibly tender and if he tried to walk without help he was still laughably unbalanced which Joe had made fun of and the reason he had snapped back an insult of his own. The look he received was unexpected and he immediately felt bad for being so ungrateful, apologizing until the man told him to shut up. He said it with a smile that for whatever reason lightened his mood and he took the proffered rifle in silence.

"You gonna tell me why you're being ornery as shit this morning?" Joe said as he leaned against the railing and looked out toward the barn. "Wouldn't have somethin' to do with a certain female bounty hunter leavin' would it?"

He kept silent, unsure what to say, and unwilling to share how badly her words had hurt. He wasn't sure why he'd let himself believe she cared even a little for him, and he was a bit angry with himself for letting her tempt him into revealing his own longing. He'd been truthful when he'd told her he'd forgotten who he was dealing with, because last night she hadn't even seemed like the same woman. She had been vulnerable and incredibly sensuous and he had wanted her, and he had been fairly sure she had wanted him too. She hadn't been faking when she'd kissed him back, he'd felt her quiver under his touch, and she didn't resist, at least not at first. He had never forced a woman. Had never wanted to. He had seen what it led to and he wanted no part of that kind of violence. It wasn't the rejection of his physical touch that hurt. He could understand her reluctance. She was a decent woman, and what they had started was probably too intimate for her to give into. He would have understood, but she had added a harsh rejection that had nothing to do with intimacy. She had condemned him as unworthy and his anger over that remained.

"Probably better she's gone," he finally said.

"She was a little distracting," Joe replied, grinning like a fool.

He couldn't help but smile in return. The man had a way of making him feel better without much effort and he realized how much he enjoyed his company.

"Think you can give me a hand out to the barn?" He asked. "'Bout time I tried to see if I can ride."

"Hell no," Joe replied instantly. "Where the hell you plan on going, cowboy? Cause from where I'm standin', until you can walk without my help, you ain't gettin on a horse."

"Why not? It's easier than walkin'," he shot back. "And you ain't my mother, so I got no reason to listen to you."

"Then you better listen to me, young man," Josie said firmly just behind him. "You are in no condition to ride and I won't have it, you hear?"

"Uh oh, you done it now, brother," Joe warned. "She may be wounded, but she still rules the roost around here. No supper for you if you don't do what she says."

Josie walked over and stood in front of him, her arms crossed in front of her, with Joe grinning and shaking his head behind her, and he fought to control his sudden emotions. He had been on his own for a very long time and answered to no one and he should be angry at their attempt to rein him in, but he wasn't. They had all asked him to stay, but he hadn't expected them to treat him as any more than a houseguest. Their refusal to let him try something even he knew was beyond his abilities at the moment, struck him forcefully for the true concern that it was. He wasn't sure how to deal with that, and looked away, afraid he might embarrass himself by revealing just how much their response had touched him.

"Riders comin'," George's strong, deep voice called out from the hayloft and stilled whatever words he'd been about to speak.

Joe grabbed his rifle and ushered his mother back into the house over her protests. Deeks struggled to his feet and hobbled over to lean against the side of the house and trained his rifle on the two approaching riders.

"It's the marshals," he finally yelled out and lowered his weapon.

Callen had his hand raised in peace, slowing his horse as he approached, and Josie quickly left the house to greet them while George made his way from the barn. Joe stood up from his kneeling position and turned to give Deeks a hand back to the chair, and he once again was struck by his kindness.

"Heard you got raided," Callen said as he dismounted. "You doin' okay ma'am?"

"These boys are pampering me pretty good," she replied. "I can offer you something to eat if you're hungry."

Callen followed George and Joe into the house with Josie, but Sam stood silently by his horse for a few minutes, his eyes fixed on Deeks.

"You got something to say?" Deeks asked, sullen once again as he studied the man.

Sam trudged up the steps and stood looming over him as he sat tensely in the chair with his rifle across his knees. The man was starting to rile him, and since he had been spoiling for a fight since last night, he was kind of looking forward to whatever was coming.

"You try something with MacKenzie?"

Sam's voice was low and threatening, his fists coiled by his side as he edged closer. Deeks' gut twisted into a knot as he stood, determined to face the man and his accusation head on. He didn't know what MacKenzie had told him, and he was angry that she had mentioned what happened at all, but he wasn't surprised.

"Is that what she told you?" He breathed out, the rifle now cradled in his arms.

"She didn't have to," he replied, his jaw clinched and his mind obviously made up.

"Course not. A man like me can't be trusted around a decent woman, right?" He said, resigned to the man's harsh judgment.

"So you got nothin' to say?" Sam asked, shoving him backwards a step.

"Wouldn't make a difference if I did, would it?" He replied, gripping the rifle tightly, ready to defend himself if the man laid his hands on him again.

"You plan on shootin' me with that," Sam said, nodding toward the rifle.

"I was thinkin' of puttin' a dent in your skull if you came at me," he replied. "I'm tired of gettin' beat up and shot at, so back off."

"You serious?"

Sam's laugh was brief and not the least bit friendly, and Deeks swung the butt of the rifle up, only to have Sam grab the weapon in his powerful hands and shove it into his chest. Deeks gasped at the pain and stumbled into one of the posts on the porch, his grip on the gun loosening. Sam ripped the rifle from his hands and then slammed it into his chest again, sending him tumbling off the porch and onto the ground, where he lay on his back trying to catch his breath. His vision was foggy, but he heard Joe cuss and looked up to see him barrel into the big marshal, tackling him off the porch and onto the ground. A single gunshot stopped them both and Callen rushed to separate the two men as George stood on the porch with his rifle leveled at Sam's chest. Josie was suddenly by his side and he dropped his head back on the ground and stared up at the clouds, waiting to catch his breath as she fussed over him.

"Be on your way before I do something I regret," George said roughly. "That boy's been hurt enough. Now git."

His ribs were screaming in pain, and his chest ached, but he rolled over onto his knees and struggled to get back on his feet, unwilling to show weakness in front of any of them. Josie stepped in front of him as he stumbled toward the marshals, putting a hand to his chest as Joe rushed to his side and wrapped an arm around him to keep him on his feet.

"What in God's name is wrong with you?" she scolded loudly, as she advanced on Sam with her hands on her hips. "Shame on you. You're a U.S. Marshal for pity's sake. This boy can hardly walk..."

"I took a swing at him, Josie," Deeks said softly, interrupting her rant.

"Why?" She turned quickly to stare at him and he grinned sheepishly back at her and shook his head.

"This about MacKenzie, son?" George asked from the porch.

"Somethin' happened between them," Sam said loudly. "He was inappropriate."

"Didn't know you knew that word, Sam," Callen said with a smirk.

"I had a better education than you," Sam huffed.

"Then why you actin' ignorant about MacKenzie and Deeks?" Callen asked. "You going blind in your old age?"

"Somebody want to tell me what's going on?" Joe asked.

"It's nobody's business," Deeks responded and pulled free of Joe.

"She cares about you Deeks," Callen said. "She's just afraid to show it."

"That woman's not afraid of nothin' and nobody," he replied. "She's wants nothin' to do with me. She made that plenty plain. She don't think I'm good enough for her, Marshal Hanna, so you got nothin' to worry about. I don't go where I ain't wanted."

"Then why'd you try to bash my head in?" Sam asked as Deeks walked gingerly toward the house.

"Just spoilin' for a fight I guess, same as you," he replied with his back to him. "Didn't take kindly to you believin' I would take advantage of a woman. Never have. Never will. Now leave me the hell alone."

George reached out a hand to help him up the steps, and he looked into the kind and understanding eyes of a man who had taken his side against a lawman. He could find no words to thank him or his family for what they had just done. It was an odd feeling to have people on his side and he gladly took the proffered hand and when he stumbled the man caught him and helped him into the house.

"Pretty dumb to go at a deputy marshal, yeah?" Deeks said.

"You talkin' about me or you?" George laughed gruffly.

"Both I guess," he grinned as George eased him down on the cot by the fire.

"We protect our own, son," the rancher said, gently squeezing his shoulder.

"Is that what I am?" He asked, wanting to make sure he had heard him right.

"If you'll have us," he replied. "Can't force you to stay, but we want you to be part of our family."

"Not sure I should stay," he said quietly. "I just seem to bring trouble and none of you deserve that."

"You mean Thurston," George said.

"The law, Thurston, and any others might be after me," he said, tiring quickly from the fight. "Don't want to bring any more of it down on you than I already have. You've all been too good to me for that."

"Families fight for each other, son," George said softly, reaching out to grasp his forearm as he sat down in front of him. "And you already did that by savin' Joe."

"Josie was shot because of me," he replied, hanging his head as he spoke. "That's tough to live with. So, when I'm able, I think it best that I leave."

"You and that girl got a lot in common, son," George said. "You both run from what's good for ya."

"But she thinks I'm no good, George," he said. "So that's the end of it."

"She seems worth fightin' for to me," he replied. "I think you like her, and you don't strike me as someone who gives up easily."

"Can't force someone to care about you," he said bitterly. "Even when they're suppose to."

"You talkin' about your father?" George asked. "You let some things slip when you were delirious. Don't understand a man who don't know how to love his own son."

"I wasn't good enough for him either. Thought my mama spoiled me. Said it made me soft," Deeks replied softly. "Heard my parents scream at each other about that all the time. Those arguments never ended well. Got worse as time went on, till I had no choice. Couldn't let him kill my mama, so I shot 'im."

"Musta been hard to shoot 'im, even if he was a sonofabitch."

"Wish it was," Deeks answered wearily.

"He leave you alone after that?" George asked.

"Nah," he said sadly as he slowly laid down, exhaustion overcoming him.

"What'd he do?" George seemed stunned and angry as he asked.

"Told the sheriff I shot him for no reason," he replied. "Spent about five months in jail before a circuit judge rode into town and told him to release me."

"How old were you?" George demanded gruffly.

"Eleven," he said, surprised at the thunderous anger on the man's face when he heard the answer.

"That's why you don't trust lawmen," George said.

"Never even held a trial," he recounted. "Sheriff just dragged me to the jail house out on the edge of town and shoved me in a cell. Took a strap to me that first night, but he'd been drinkin', so he gave out pretty quick."

"My God, boy..." he said as he gripped his arm, unable to say anything else.

"It was a long time ago," he said, matter-of-factly. "Usually steer clear of the law if I can. Probably shoulda done that just now. Not sure why I took on that marshal. Big bastard."

"Who you callin' a bastard," Sam boomed out, brushing past the others as they entered.

George put a hand on his shoulder as he started to sit up, holding him down as the marshal moved toward them. Marshal Callen ushered Josie in and Joe walked quickly up to stand at the foot of his small cot.

"Don't think he was questioning your parentage, Marshal Hanna," George said. "He's had a rough time of it, so cut him some slack or leave."

"You shouldn't have come at me like that, Gentry," Sam said. "Wasn't gonna let you hit me no matter how bad off you are."

"I'll think better of it next time," Deeks said, growing tired of being the center of attention.

"Next time I'll arrest you," Sam warned.

"Won't be around for you to do that," Deeks replied as he lay back and stared at the ceiling.

"You don't mean that, Marty," Josie said as she came over and sat down next to him on the cot.

"Yes, ma'am, I do," he said, feeling numb and infinitely sad. "Don't need defendin' and you don't need the trouble I bring. Ask the marshal...he knows I'm right."

"Thought you were gonna help bring down Thurston," Callen said.

"Not if it means this family pays the price," Deeks replied and turned to look him in the eye. "You don't care what happens to 'em, but I do, and you know what's comin' if I stay."

"You think Thurston needs an excuse to burn these folks out?" Callen spit out, his blue eyes boring into Deeks' own.

"It'll take him awhile to replace the men we took down," Joe reasoned. "In the meantime, why in blazes don't you arrest the sonofabitch instead of tearin' into the man he almost killed?"

"Territorial Governor won't have it, and he's got the ear of the federal judge we answer to," Callen admitted. "Can't prove Thurston was behind any of it unless Gentry gives me something that'll help me prove he's not the upstanding citizen he's pretending to be."

"Appears to me he's runnin' a gang of gunmen that's terrorizin' this part of the territory," George reasoned. "Don't the Federal Government care about that?"

"We sent a telegram to the Attorney General in Washington, but haven't heard back," Sam told them. "Thurston has some high-powered friends in Washington, too."

"Guess nobody will care until he kills someone more important than my son, Chris," Josie said sharply, obviously disgusted. "We're on our own. And we intend to fight."

Her words struck cold fear into Deeks and he marveled at her tenacity, but if he could do something to protect them he would. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he let her get hurt again or let any of them be killed. He looked from her to the tall figure of Joe standing solidly at his feet and then George, who's rough hand still rested gently on his arm and his chest tightened. They cared about him. Amazing as that was to believe, they had pulled him into their family. They had taken care of him at his lowest point without question and had fought for him as if he were their blood kin. He had to try and take on Thurston again, to do as the deputy marshal asked. Even though he was wary of the lawmen, especially Marshal Hanna, if his testimony would help bring that bastard down he would do it.

"I'll do what you want, Marshal Callen," He said quietly. "But, I'm not stayin' here. I can't put these people in danger again. I won't. Take me to his ranch. I'll accuse him face to face. Promise you'll arrest him if I do that and I'll go with you."

"We're not lettin' you do that, brother," Joe said staunchly.

"You're not up for it, son," George said, his face troubled.

Josie said nothing as she stood up suddenly and just stared at him.

"It's what I gotta do," he replied and swung his legs over the cot and sat up.

"Do it tomorrow, Marty," Josie finally pleaded. "Give yourself another day, please. Marshal Callen...you can see how weak he still is...don't let him do this."

"I'm not weak," Deeks snapped, angry to be called what his father always accused him of being.

He stood up and fought to remain solidly on his feet. George rose next to him and put a hand on his shoulder, but his face filled with deep lines of sorrow as he tightened his grip. Josie wiped tears from her eyes with the tips of her fingers and quickly walked into the kitchen and began to bang pans around, her silence cutting him deeply. Joe on the other hand was glaring at him as the muscle in his jaw flexed in anger, his dark brown eyes were a storm of emotion and he wondered if the man was going to hit him.

"You stupid, stubborn sonofabitch," Joe said very softly before turning to face the marshals. "That goes for the two of you, too. What? You just gonna ride in there with a man that bastard left for dead and show your badges hopin' he'll come along all peaceful like? That'd make you dumber than he is."

"You really think I'm that stupid?" Callen asked with a smirk. "I actually have a plan."

"We'll spend the night if you'll have us," Marshal Hanna said. "We came here to help if he decided to send another raiding party. We'll head up to Fort Steele in the morning. That'll give Gentry time to get some more rest."

"He's not Max Gentry here. Call him Deeks or Marty," George said quietly, but firmly. "You can stay. I'll keep watch while you eat."

It was if he were invisible, everyone talking around him or right through him. He knew the Atwoods were mad at him, but he was right to leave even if it cost him their respect or more.

"Why are you takin' me to Fort Steele?" He finally asked, interrupting their conversation about guard duty.

"To see if I got a reply telegram from the Attorney General," Callen replied. "We'll get your full story and contact the Federal Judge in Cheyenne to let him know we have a man willin' to testify against Thurston."

"How long will that take?" Deeks asked, his voice crackling with barely held anger.

"Not sure, but we'll get 'im," Callen assured him. "You just make sure you're able to ride in the mornin'."

"Don't give me orders," he snapped.

"You want me to arrest you instead?" Callen asked, taking a step toward him, his mouth drawn into a thin line of determination.

"What you gonna charge me with, Marshal?" Deeks taunted, his fists tightening as he faced both lawmen.

"How 'bout for being an idiot," Joe said as he stepped between the men and put a hand on Deeks chest. "Get some rest Marty. That's a long ride. Fallin' off your horse won't feel too good."

"I ain't never fallen off a horse," Deeks argued.

"Always a first time, son," George said softly as he put an arm around him. "No shame in restin' up for a long ride. I know you're hurtin'. None of us will think less of ya if you take it easy. It'll ease Josie's mind, son. She's a worrier."

He finally gave in and sank back down on the cot, suddenly exhausted, biting back his anger because of George's kind manner. He lay back, but was still anxious as Joe covered him with a blanket, turning to stare at the two deputy marshals. He didn't trust them, no matter what assurances they'd made. It all sounded chancy and the process long and drawn out. His mind swirled with what might happen and none of the outcomes were good. He never relied on others to solve his problems and the law had never been good to him, so his mind spun as he drifted toward sleep, resisting until it slowly claimed him.

...

MacKenzie cringed as the man's hands slipped inside her shirt once again, his laugh course and his stubble rough against her ear. She was way past anger, and tugged at the rawhide rope that bound her wrists tightly to his saddle horn. She was exhausted from the long, hot ride and her constant attempts to free herself, desperate to fight the man who held her at his mercy. Her mouth was dry from the gag and even when they had stopped to water the horses, she was not offered any to slake her own growing thirst. She didn't have her hat and the sun was slowly draining her remaining strength, but she wouldn't give Black Jack Wallace the satisfaction of seeing her succumb to his callous treatment. She twisted away from him as they mounted a rise and looked down over Turston's sprawling ranch. She couldn't help letting out a small whimper now that the long ride was over, but an image of Gentry lying beaten and bloody, flashed through her mind and she shivered.

"Fun's over for me, for a while anyway," Wallace whispered as his hand closed around her neck. "The gentleman's waitin', darlin'."

He grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back against his shoulder, his tongue running slowly over her cheek as his dirty thumb brushed over her lip.

"I'm gonna miss ya, darlin'," he whispered, and then roughly shoved her forward and picked up the reins, urging his horse down toward the ranch.

By the time they reached the front of the house, they were being trailed by a large number of ranch hands, looking eager for a show. Wallace swung down and tied his horse to the iron post in front as the door opened, revealing a tall, gray haired man with a beard in shirtsleeves and a tightly buttoned brocaded vest. He looked angry until he looked at her, then a slow smile spread across his face as Wallace approached him.

"Brung ya that present I promised," he told the man she knew was Thurston.

He didn't even acknowledge the gunman, simply walked past him to stand beside her. She was tempted to kick him, but she was tired and desperately wanted off this damn horse.

"You smell almost as bad as Mr. Wallace, Miss Blye," he said. "I'm sure you would appreciate a proper bath. Looks as if he has taken advantage of you on the ride back. Granted, he is a crude man, but effective in carrying out orders."

He placed a tentative hand on her knee and then ran it slowly up to the top of her thigh, leaving it in place as he looked her over.

"Careful, she kicks," Black Jack said with a chuckle.

"Perhaps you deserved it," the man said quietly, patting her gently before turning away. "Untie her and bring her in. And get rid of that disgusting gag. She looks to be quite a beautiful lady and I can see by her open shirt that you have treated her rather poorly."

"She ain't no lady, Mr. Thurston," Wallace drawled. "She's a fire breathin' bitch."

"Watch your filthy mouth, Mr. Wallace," Thurston warned. "Your lack of upbringing is showing."

MacKenzie saw Wallace freeze. She had seen that stance before when he had killed a man over just such an insult during a game of cards. Thurston was walking a dangerous line with a stone cold killer, but she wasn't about to warn him. He didn't deserve it and it might just get her out of here.

She hadn't realized how tired she was until Wallace pushed her into the parlor, his hands gripping her arms painfully. The room was cool and she relished it, but she kept her wits about her as he released her to untie the gag, which she quickly yanked out of her mouth. Wallace laughed, reaching up to stroke her cheek, and finally causing her anger to explode. She grabbed his fingers and twisted and bent them back as hard as she could, turning quickly to slam the heel of her boot down on his ankle. He bellowed like a bull and backhanded her to the floor where she lay dazed as he advanced on her, his eyes dark and wild with rage.

"Your early assessment seems to be correct, Mr. Wallace," Thurston said as he leveled a pistol at the man's chest. "She is a feisty one and unwilling to suffer your company a moment longer it appears. You've completed your mission. Now please see yourself out."

"You'll pay for that you little bitch," Wallace threatened.

"You have no more business with Miss Blye unless I say you do," Thurston said coldly. "Or are you under the mistaken impression that I won't shoot you where you stand for refusing to obey orders?"

She wondered if Thurston realized just how dangerous Black Jack Wallace was, or if he noticed the way his eyes flared and hardened. Waiting to see what would happen, she wildly hoped they might just kill each other. She was surprised to see the gunfighter back down, but not before pointing a finger at her, the threat silent but plain. He turned on his heel and left, limping only slightly, but enough to make her smile.

"Now, Miss Blye, a word," Thurston said, and stepped back to point the pistol at her as she sat up. "I am not a forgiving man. According to some of my men, you were at the Atwoods and appear to be an impressive shot. Now, I am not a sentimental man about the loss of hired help, however, they did belong to me and you deprived me of their services and that needs to be atoned for."

He set the pistol down on a side table and offered her a hand up, which she took. Stepping up close, he slowly buttoned her shirt, and then stepped back and smiled at her, confusing her completely.

"Now let me show you to your room," speaking as if she were an invited houseguest. "My servants have prepared a bath for you and I will lay out some proper attire for dinner. Please do not try to escape. I believe Mr. Wallace will be waiting for just such an excuse to deal with you quite ruthlessly."

He took her hand and led her up the stairs to a large room overlooking a corral with mares and foals and a view toward the distant plateau where they had found Gentry. The knowledge made her tremble and reminded her of what the man now pointing out the beauty of the room was capable of. There were guards just outside, so she knew escape would be difficult, but she also knew it wouldn't stop her from trying.

"I believe this will look lovely on you, Miss Blye," the man said as he turned to show her a ball gown in pale green satin trimmed with elaborate lace. "It will look quite pleasing with your dark hair and conform nicely to your body as well. Now undress for me. Your bath is waiting and you wouldn't want it to go cold."

She went rigid as soon as the suggestion left his mouth and she backed away, her eyes flashing in defiance. He smirked at her and she prepared to fight.

"I apologize Miss Blye. You're not a course little prostitute working the rail towns, are you?" He said. "My mistake. Perhaps when I see you in this dress instead of in men's clothing I will form a higher opinion of you. You do have potential, I must admit."

He paused as he started to walk past her, his eyes unreadable. "We'll speak about Max Gentry at dinner. He is quite an interesting man, although I doubt he is the same after what I subjected him to."

He caught her off guard and she froze, unable to keep her expression passive, which he didn't fail to notice. He studied her, his eyes probing hers until she looked away.

"I see fear in your eyes, Miss Blye," he said quite softly. "Is it for him or for yourself? I will have him captured by the same man who captured you, and I don't believe he will be quite as gentle with the man who killed his brother. He has promised to let me watch him take his revenge and you, of course, will be permitted to join me. Mr. Gentry wouldn't yield to me, but perhaps he will to Mr. Wallace. It might take some time for him to do so, but that will just add to the entertainment. Quick deaths are quite boring, don't you think?"

Her heart was beating wildly by the time he finished talking and she tried to hit him, but he caught her wrist and drove his fist into her stomach, leaving her breathless on the floor.

"If you try that again I'll have you horsewhipped," he said coldly. "Now get cleaned up. You smell like a wet dog. Dinner will be served at four."

She drew herself into a ball as the door closed behind him. When she heard it lock, the sound brought such relief she gasped out a small whimper. She had no strength left and she allowed herself a few tears before she struggled to her feet and waited for her breath to return. She stared at the tub of hot water and noticed the hint of lavender that floated in the air and she suddenly began to tear at her clothes, wanting nothing more than to rid herself of the stench of Black Jack Wallace and the demented man who held her captive.

Sinking into the scented water, she groaned as the heat eased some of the pain from all the punches she'd suffered. Her mind turned to Max Gentry as she scrubbed at the grime that streaked her body and face. That name didn't seem to fit the man she had kissed so willingly and had judged so unfairly. She was fearful for him. He had no idea that Black Jack Wallace was so close and she was determined not to give Thurston any hint of where he was. She was determined to escape, to warn him to get as far away as he could before Wallace came for him and brought him back to face the man who had almost killed him.

The warm water slowly relaxed her and as her hands slid the soap over her body she recalled his gentle touch and the taste of his lips against her own. The Atwoods always called him Deeks, and it seemed to fit him in her mind now, as she recalled their time together. Why she had pulled away from him eluded her, angry that she had denied herself his affection because of fear. She had welcomed his touch and his kiss, and longed for them again, though she held no hope that he would feel the same after her cruel rejection. Whatever had happened between them was in the past now, but she wouldn't let these men get to him if she could find a way to do something about it.

She caressed her breast as she slid deeper into the lavender scented water, remembering the longing in his soft blue eyes and the sweet taste of his mouth as he smothered her lips and she couldn't help but dream.

...

...


	14. Chapter 14

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 14_

...

She fingered the silky undergarments that had been laid out for her on the bed, wondering again where they had come from. They were trimmed with delicate rosettes and tiny strips of pink lace and they felt cool against her skin as she slipped them on. She tied the strings around her waist, slowly lacing herself into the form-fitting garment that pushed her breasts up, making her curse softly under her breath. What was it about women's breasts that fascinated men? The question almost made her laugh, but knowing who would be lusting after hers this evening, left the bitter taste of disgust in her mouth.

She ran her hand over the soft satin of the gown, fingering the filigree of lace on the front. She had never worn such a beautiful dress, and there was a part of her that was excited about donning it, but another that raged against that feminine sentiment. She had never cared about dressing up, even when she was a little girl. Her mother would beg her to put on some fancy new dress she had bought for her, but she would stubbornly refuse, once throwing a tantrum that earned her a whipping that seemed harder on her mother than it did on her. She had eventually given in because she had no choice. When they'd moved to Colorado, she had always preferred to be out in the barn, trailing along behind her stepfather as he saw to the horses. He had bought her riding britches for their first Christmas together, which had caused a loud argument with her mother, but which had endeared the man to her. His gift of a beautiful little Palomino mare the following spring had cemented their bond. When she was fifteen he had given her a rifle and taught her to shoot. How desperately she wished she had that rifle now.

Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to retreat from memories of the past and face the uncertain present. She had toyed with the idea of refusing Thurston's instructions, but she needed to gather information and scout out the house so she would do as he said for now. Stepping into the pale green gown, she pulled it up and turned to look at herself in the tall, ornately carved mirror in the corner. It left her shoulders bare and the slope of her breasts cresting the edge of the neckline, but she had to admit she was a bit thrilled at how good she looked, just not someone she recognized. Smoothing the soft, shimmering fabric, she then fluffed her dark hair, letting the long curls cascade over her shoulders, admiring herself until she heard the key turn in the lock.

"My, my...the dirty little ragamuffin has turned into a princess," Thurston said, his tone assuredly condescending as he admired her. "You are quite stunning, my dear."

He walked to her and reached out to take her arm, but she backed away, her skin crawling at the thought of him touching her.

"I am only offering to button you up, Miss Blye," he said quietly. "No need to be frightened."

"I'm not afraid of anyone," she snapped.

"That's not wise, my dear," he said as he grabbed her arm and yanked her close. "Now turn around and let me help you, or I will be forced to ask for assistance. I'm sure Black Jack Wallace will be more than eager."

She paled a little at that and Thurston smiled as she turned her back to him. He took his time buttoning the loops, resting his hands on her bare shoulders when he was finished, and turning her toward the mirror so he could look at them together.

"We make quite an impressive couple, don't you think?" he whispered, running his fingers through one of her soft curls. "You remind me of my first wife. Her eyes weren't devilish like yours, but then she was a passive little thing, given to copious tears."

"I'm sure you gave her cause," MacKenzie said, stepping away from his touch.

"Oh, I did indeed," he agreed easily. "She was too frail for my tastes. Quite wealthy, which was the reason for our marriage. But, she was badly spoiled by her father, and had no mind of her own."

"I would think you'd like a woman who didn't question you," she said.

"She did. Once."

MacKenzie felt a chill when the man smiled.

"Would you like me to describe my punishment for her transgression?" He said quietly as he reached out and fingered the top of her bodice.

"Not really interested," she replied.

"You should be," he said as he hooked a finger into the delicate fabric and pulled her to him. "You have your own sins to atone for, my dear, and I want you to be prepared."

"Were you a preacher in a former life?" She asked flippantly. "What about your sins?"

"Any specific sin you are referring to?" He asked, seeming to enjoy the banter. "Perhaps you mean my treatment of my former hired gun, Max Gentry. He was quite a disappointment. Intelligent. Inventive. Arrogant and brave. Excellent with a gun. But, unfortunately, he turned out to have a conscience, and that corrupted him."

"What did he do?"

"You should be asking what I did to him," he replied. "It was quite entertaining. He is a strong man to have survived, but you know that, don't you?"

"Only met the man once. Didn't impress me," she told him.

"You lie well, my dear," he laughed. "Well done, but I'm afraid I will have to add that to your list of sins."

"You're not God," she replied, amazed at the man's overbearing arrogance.

"You should fear me even more," he replied coldly. "God offers grace and forgiveness. I offer neither. Mr. Gentry discovered that. He suffered the only thing I offer those who go against my wishes...retribution."

She said nothing in reply, walking resolutely to the door, afraid her expression would betray her and Deeks. She remembered his screams, his feverish mumblings and nightmares and her hands tightened into fists as she waited for him to follow. She couldn't lie to herself. She was scared, but she wasn't about to let him see her fear if she could help it. When he took her elbow and guided her into the hall, she held her head high, trying to look impervious to his attempts to intimidate her.

Her eye caught the hem of a long black skirt as someone disappeared down a back flight of stairs and wondered if it was the servant who had fixed her bath, scenting it with lavender, and laid out the clothes she was wearing. She had seen no one except the guard that sat by her door, and she wondered where all his staff kept themselves. If she could talk to one of them, maybe they could help her find a way to escape.

"I do hope your palette is somewhat finer than most of your compatriots," he remarked as they made their way down the stairs. "I brought my personal chef over from my father's estate in Sussex. He has prepared a fine pheasant for us, which will go quite well with an excellent Bordeaux that was recently delivered. Do you enjoy wine, Miss Blye?"

"No," she replied curtly, refusing to play his game anymore than she had to.

He tightened his grip painfully on her bare forearm and stopped her at the base of the stairs. "No need to be rude, Miss Blye. It's rather unbecoming."

"Unbecoming?" She practically laughed in his face, her eyes flashing in anger. "You had me taken against my will and brought here by one of the most vicious men I've ever known. I was tied up and gagged and manhandled and you expect me to be civil to you?"

"I expect you to be grateful I didn't give you to my men to do with as they wished," he said, biting off each word as his fingernails painfully gouged her skin. "I expect you to be grateful that I have treated you like a lady instead of like the ruffian you are. And, I expect you to answer whatever questions I have or suffer the painful consequences."

She struck him hard across the cheek with her fist and he roared out his anger, suddenly twisting her arm up behind her back before she had a chance to kick him. She stomped on his foot and he cursed, but didn't release his hold. His other hand suddenly wrapped around her throat, quickly choking off her air and as hard as she fought, he was strong and enraged. He yelled for the guard and two came running, helping him subdue her as she fought and struggled, calling him every vile name she could think of. One man screamed when she kneed him in the groin, but the other punched her so hard in the back that she sank to her knees gasping for breath. The two men yanked her to her feet and held her while Thurston stood calmly straightening his frock coat and black vest.

"I believe Mr. Wallace was correct," he said, tenderly fingering the bruise forming on his left cheek. "You are certainly not a lady. I had this dress imported from Paris in hopes that my dear wife would join me here, but she refused, retiring instead to her father's country estate in Norfolk."

"Smart woman," MacKenzie spit out.

He slapped her sharply, but she just laughed and she saw his demeanor change. She knew she was playing with fire, but she couldn't stop herself.

"A wife should obey her husband, no matter the request," he said, although she wasn't sure he was addressing her any longer, staring past her as he spoke. "I tried to teach her the proper way to treat her husband, but her father took issue with my methods. Her lack of respect for me is the reason I am relegated to this pathetic country. I should have inherited my father's title..."

He stopped his bitter ramblings and finally seemed to become aware of her and when he looked at her she saw a touch of madness in his eyes.

"Max Gentry defied me and I think you know what I did to him," he said. "What punishment does your defiance and lack of respect deserve, Miss Blye? Tell me. Tell me why I shouldn't have you dragged behind a horse for your lack of basic manners and your filthy tongue? And do tell me where and how poor Mr. Gentry is? Can he walk?"

"I don't know and I don't care," she lied, struggling once again to break free.

"We'll see about that," he said absently as he ran the back of one finger across her lips. "Remember what I said about retribution, Miss Blye? Poor Mr. Gentry learned first hand what I meant. Now, you will experience it as well. Don't say I didn't warn you."

...

The moon cast a pale light on the cliff side above him as he pulled Sheila to a stop on a low rise, searching the ground that lay ahead of them. It was a cold night, but thankfully there was little cloud cover or his poor mare would have stumbled more than she already had. He'd apologized each time, but she had just snorted out her obvious disapproval. It was nothing compared to how angry the Atwoods would be when they discovered he was gone, especially Joe. He'd been surprised when they'd agreed to let him stand guard duty, not sure how he would have pulled off his escape if they hadn't. Callen and Hanna would think he simply ran, which was fine. He didn't care if they thought he was a coward. Hanna didn't think much of him anyway and Callen only wanted a way to allow the law to take on Thurston, but he had never believed the law would do anything to stop the man. The bastard had too many powerful friends and too many gunmen hired to protect him.

"Not too far now, old girl," he said as he urged her down the slope, picking his way through the thick sagebrush.

Bonner had shown him this route once when they were looking for a runaway horse. It was a dangerous trek at night, but little used, which is why he decided on it. If he could keep from taking a spill, it would lead him to a spot south of Thurston's ranch that was thick with scrub pine to screen his approach. There was a lot of danger in his plan and he could almost hear Joe calling him an idiot or worse for doing this alone, but he was determined and didn't want anyone else to suffer if he was caught. Thurston posted few guards at night, and tonight he would use that arrogance against him.

He was tiring by the time they followed the almost obscure track down the south ridge and entered the copse of scrub pine that stretched from the barn to the main house. Pulling his buckskin jacket tightly closed against a sudden chill, he eased himself from the saddle, stifling a groan as his feet hit the ground. Sheila turned and softly nuzzled him and he leaned heavily against her as he waited for the pain to subside.

"I'm okay, girl," he whispered. "No need to worry. I'm just pacing myself."

After tying her to a branch, he moved gingerly through the trees toward the barn, stumbling ever so often until he finally came to open ground. He pulled his Colt and held it by his side and paused to look for anyone who might be up or on guard around the barn. When he was certain it was clear he hurried across the open space, the moon casting his shadow ahead of him. Pressing his back against the wood, he tried to still the rapid beating of his heart as his feet throbbed, making him wonder if he wasn't as stupid as Joe would think if he knew where he was and what he was about to do. He concentrated and listened intently, but heard only an occasional soft shuffling of horses in the barn. He edged along the side and stopped, listening once again before rounding the corner and slipping inside the back door and into the darkness of the barn. It was warm inside and the familiar smell of hay and horses was comforting. He stared out the open entrance of the barn to the house, a soft glow emanating from a few lanterns near the windows. Quite a few horses stared curiously at him and he was surprised more weren't in the remuda out on the range. Shaking his head, he holstered his gun and slowly went from stall to stall, opening each one before finally returning to swing the back door wide open. The animals didn't seem all that interested in leaving, but that would change eventually, and now they had two ways out. Just in case someone did catch one of the horses, he methodically went about cutting the cinches on all the saddles he found, wondering how many of Thurston's men could ride bareback and for how long. When he was done, he picked up a big pile of hay and headed to the door, searching the darkness for anyone awake at such a late hour. Seeing no one, he walked as quickly as he was able to the end of the bunkhouse that served as the kitchen and piled the hay around the corner and down one side. He repeated the process a couple of more times, until the hay was banked high against the building. He paused briefly when he thought he heard someone, but relaxed when he recognized the snore of one of the hire hands. Making his way back to the barn, it took him a moment to catch his breath, and he sat down heavily on a box in the corner. He wrapped his arms around his ribs, willing the pain to ease off, but there was nothing he could do for the agony his feet were causing.

"I can do this," he whispered to himself. "I have to do this."

Pulling his hat low over his eyes, he blew out a shallow breath and pushed himself up to stand once again. Each step was painful, but he managed to make his way to one of the kerosene lanterns hanging on a post and took out the plug at the base. He walked slowly back to the stacks of hay, leaving a trail of kerosene from the barn to the bunkhouse. When he returned to the barn, he leaned his head against the rough wall and took in several deep breaths even though they cost him. This next part would be the hardest and he could only hope his body didn't fail him. Searching for the stash of wooden matches he'd brought, he dug them out and struck one, staring grimly at the small flash of flame. Pausing only briefly before he lit the kerosene, he turned and ran for the trees and Sheila, not needing to see the trail of flame as it ate its way to the bunkhouse. He stumbled and fell to his knees as the hay around the bunkhouse caught fire, and he turned to make sure the wood siding would catch. When he saw the flames crawl up the side of the building, he scrambled to his feet and began limping back to the trees, pleased that the first part of his plan had worked.

Sheila nickered softly as he untied her and flung himself wearily into the saddle and headed for the main house. It didn't take long and by the time he slid down off his mare and tied her, the roof of the bunkhouse was beginning to smoke as the wood caught, the flames casting an eerie light on the front of the house. He hobbled across the open ground and around to the back, moving silently up onto the wraparound porch to the door that led into a back mudroom. Breathing heavily, he stepped inside the musty room and pulled his gun, waiting to catch his breath and listening once again for anyone awake.

A shrill cry of pain startled him. It was a woman, and that confused him, having never seen a woman around the ranch except for the old black servant Thurston kept. He moved out of the mudroom and along the hallway by the stairs, tucking himself behind a large cabinet as he tried to figure out where the cry had come from. He could see into the entrance hall and through the windows to the chaos taking place outside. The end of the bunkhouse was now fully engulfed in flames and he could hear the men beginning to shout as they ran for the water troughs. He waited for someone to come for Thurston, and pressed himself into the deep shadows, keeping his breathing shallow.

"Fire! Boss! Fire!" A man shouted as he slammed through the front door, rattling the glass.

He heard the shout repeated by a man upstairs and then heard Thurston's distinctive voice curse loudly as he opened a door and headed down the stairs. The guard wasn't far behind and actually shoved past his boss to race out into the night to try and save his meager home.

"How the hell did this happen?" Thurston shouted as he walked out to the porch.

Deeks peeked up over the cabinet and saw Thurston shove the man who had brought the news and then hurry toward the burning building, the flames now roaring and turbulent, starkly brilliant against the night sky. A few loose horses ran past the man and he called out for his men to catch the frightened animals. As Thurston moved further away and everyone's eyes were on the bunkhouse, he decided he had better see who had screamed before continuing with his plan. He eased out from behind the cabinet and moved gingerly toward the base of the stairs, keeping a lookout in case a guard had remained. Creeping silently upstairs, he paused at the top in the dimly lit hallway, the only light coming from the open door of the room to his left. His gun led the way as he moved inside only to stop abruptly and curse.

A dark haired woman in a pale green dress lay crumpled on her knees, her hands tied tightly to the bedpost, the back of the dress and her undergarments ripped open, revealing deeply cut lashes on her back. Her hair was tangled and wild and covered what he could see of her face, and his anger flared as she whimpered softly.

"Miss? Let me help you," he whispered as he holstered his gun and pulled a knife to cut her free.

As soon as he touched her she jerked away and turned to confront him, her face streaked with tears as she choked out a few curse words.

"Ken...Kenzie?" He stuttered out her name in shock and reached out to brush a tangled strand of hair away from her badly beaten face. "What the hell?"

She folded in on herself, collapsing even further as she stared at him as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

"He can't find you here," she whispered through her tears.

"He won't," he said, so deeply offended by what Thurston had done to her he had trouble saying anything.

He cut her hands free and then pulled her to him as she began to shake. She groaned and he was afraid she wouldn't have the strength to make it out of here.

"Can you walk?" He asked.

"Better than you," she choked out, and he smiled.

"Can you sit a horse?"

"If you help me off with this damn dress," she said, her voice stronger now, giving him hope.

He helped her stand, but she wavered, holding onto his arms to stay on her feet. She looked up at him and he smoothed her hair away from her face, taking in her bloody lips and the terrible bruises on her face. Blood streaked her forehead and he swore softly as his anger swelled.

"The unholy bastard," he said bitterly.

"How did you know I was here?" She finally asked.

"I didn't," he said.

"Where is he?" Her eyes suddenly wide with fear as she turned toward the door, cringing and burrowing deep into his arms.

"Set a little fire to keep him occupied," he said softly, and then made her look at him.

"Why did you come here?" She asked. "He tried to get me to tell where you were...but I wouldn't."

"He hurt you because of me?" He was so filled with rage he could barely get the words out.

"He beat me because he enjoys it," her voice was hollow and her words ended in a sob.

He wasn't sure what to say, so he reached up and brushed a tear from her cheek, but it only caused more tears and he took a step back, afraid he had upset her by touching her. She shook her head and wiped angrily at her eyes and began to pull at the top of the dress, yanking it down until it fell around her feet in a puddle of green satin. She stared down at the ruined thing now spotted with her blood and then stepped free of it, kicking at it as she backed away. She grabbed the bedpost for support, sagging as she lost her balance and he stepped up to take her arms, but he could see the warning in her eyes and didn't touch her.

"Are Callen and Sam with you?" She whispered.

"No."

"You came here alone?" She asked, her eyes wide with surprise that quickly turned to anger. "You're an idiot. Why would you do that?"

"Thought I'd teach the bastard a lesson," he said with a quick grin, before taking off his buckskin jacket and holding it out to her.

She seemed to finally realize she was in nothing but her undergarments, and her cheeks flushed. She took the jacket and tried to put it on, but moaned at the pain the effort caused, so he stepped up to help her.

"Thanks," her broken voice betraying her exhaustion and pain.

"Where are your clothes and your boots?" He asked, suddenly anxious to get her out of there.

She pointed at a small, ornate dresser and he yanked out the top drawer and pulled out her riding pants and then found her boots. He helped her to a low chair and turned to check the hall for any sign of Thurston's return while she dressed. When he turned back, his breath caught and he stopped and stared at her as she stood up. She looked wildly beautiful in spite of all her bruises. Her dark hair was tousled and cascaded around her shoulders and the white lacy top beneath the buckskin was low enough that he could see the soft curve of her breasts.

"You're staring," she said.

"Sorry," he said, grinning softly in embarrassment. "Better go. Still got one thing left to do."

She nodded and started toward him, but stumbled and he rushed forward to catch her. She gasped as his arms brushed her back and shivered violently, panting from the pain.

"It'll hurt, but I'm gonna carry you, okay?" He whispered as he lifted her in his arms, not waiting for an answer, but anxious as she muffled a cry against his chest.

The added weight sent sharp stabs of pain up his legs and his feet pulsed with each step down the stairs, but he didn't stop until they got to the bottom. By then they were both panting from the effort, but she insisted he put her down and they paused only to catch their breath, before he led her back to the darkness of the mudroom.

"Stay here," he said as she leaned heavily against the wall for support.

"Where are you going?"

"To teach Thurston what it feels like to be burned outa your home," Deeks said.

"What about the servants?" She asked.

"They live in a small house out back by the horse barn," he said. "Told me he don't allow them in the house at night. Not sure he even believes they're human beings."

She nodded sadly and he left her, making his way into the room where he'd first spoken to the arrogant bastard who had nearly killed him and who had now tortured a woman he cared about. Picking up one of the fancy glass kerosene lamps from the table by the window, he turned up the low flame until it was at its brightest and with no hesitation, placed it under the thick velvet curtains near the fireplace. He stopped to mockingly salute the painting of Thurston's ancestor in his bright red coat as fire streaked up the curtains, his face turning grim with determination. He snatched up another ornate lamp and passed into the game room the man was so proud of, taking one last look at the massive buffalo head before he threw the burning lamp at the wall. It shattered and sprayed broken glass and kerosene across the dark wallpaper and the ornate table beneath, igniting brilliant flames that crawled eagerly up toward the animal heads hanging forlornly along the wall.

He took the chimney off a small lamp and set it beneath the curtains by the windows he'd looked out of that first day and then hobbled back to the hall to find MacKenzie staring at him with a trembling smile.

"I'm done here," he said, wanting nothing more to do with the man.

"Let me kill him," she pleaded.

"Another day," he said as he took her hand and led her out.

They were both staggering by the time they reached the trees, but paused to watch as the fire shattered the back windows and smoke curled across the roof. He could hear Thurston screaming curses at his men, not sounding the least bit genteel doing it. Sheila whinnied softly and he helped MacKenzie up in the saddle before gritting his teeth as he pushed off with his foot and leaped up behind her. He reached around her for the reins and felt her hands cover his and he held his breath.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Happy I could return the favor, Miss MacKenzie," he said as he turned Sheila toward the backside of the ranch.

After that brief exchange they stayed silent, following the stand of scrub pine until it ended at the top of a gully that led north. It was steeped in shadow now that the moon was setting, and he took his time guiding Sheila down to the bottom. They followed the rough track as it wound between the rocky hills until it finally opened up to the grasslands north of the ranch. Deeks urged Sheila into a slow loping gallop, aware that MacKenzie was exhausted and obviously in pain. His plans had to change now, but he still had to put a lot of distance between them and the men who would be looking for whoever started the fires. He could only pray they didn't go to the Atwoods' place, but it was too late to think of that now. He had no regrets, especially after finding MacKenzie. He wanted to know the full story, but it could wait until he got them somewhere safe to spend the night. He could take her to Fort Steele, but there would be too many questions and he had no desire to spend time in jail for burning out such an upstanding citizen. Hell, they'd probably hang him for it.

He slowed his mare to a walk as the cold, gusty wind whipped the grasses around them. MacKenzie slumped heavily in his arms, groaning each time her back bumped against him, and his anger flared. Feeling her shiver, he tightened his grip on her, worried by the heat coming off her body. He needed to tend to her wounds soon, knowing her fever would only get worse the longer they kept riding.

"I'm gonna find us a place so you can rest," he said next to her ear.

"I can make it," she insisted in a whisper.

"Tough girl, yeah?" He replied.

"Where were you headed?" She asked. "Before you found me there."

"Arapaho reservation," he said. "Got friends up there."

"I can make it if you can," she replied.

"Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow," he said. "'fraid I'm tuckered out."

"Me too."

Surprised she had admitted it, he pulled to a stop to consider their options, looking for any familiar landmarks that might help. He had no idea how far they'd come, the gathering darkness slightly disorienting now that the moon was low in the sky. Sheila snorted and started down a grassy slope and he let her go, almost too tired to care where she was headed. The rush of a stream caught his attention, and he stared intently into the darkness, but trusted his mare not to stumble into it. The willows were thrashing as the wind gusted at their backs and he followed the stream until he found a place for Sheila to drink. He was afraid to get off, unsure whether he would be in any shape to get back on, so when his mare was done, they continued up the track beside the willows. As they rounded a bend, a familiar rock formation loomed ahead and he realized they were close to the Mueller place. He had no idea if the family had returned, but even if they hadn't it was a place to spend the night, or what was left of it. Callen had told him Thurston's men had burned the house, but he'd take a nice warm barn over the open any day, especially with MacKenzie in such bad shape.

"We're close to the Mueller place, Kenzie," letting the nickname out before he thought. "Sorry."

When he got no response, he realized she had fallen asleep and he urged Sheila into a canter and up the gentle slope to the ridgeline. It was almost an hour before they worked their way down to the feeder creek that led to the small ranch, and Kenzie shifted against him as they crossed it, mumbling something he couldn't quite hear.

"We're here," he said.

"Where?"

"The Mueller ranch," he said, as he slowed Sheila to a walk. "Hold on. I'm gonna check the barn."

He slid off the back end of the mare and almost collapsed when his feet hit the ground. He grabbed her tail and she looked back at him and nickered softly, making him thankful for her calmness and seeming understanding. His whole body ached, but he blew out a shaky breath and steeled himself, pulling his pistol as he started toward the barn. He saw and heard no one, but kept his gun ready as he pulled at the heavy barn door, calling out into the darkness. The sound of a rifle being cocked made him stumble back and he grabbed at the latch on the barn door to keep from falling.

"Take one more step, stranger, and ya ain't gonna live long," a rough voice growled from the deep shadows.

"Just lookin' for a place to bed down, mister," he replied as he raised his hands.

"You alone?"

"Got a wounded girl needs rest."

"Who are ya?"

"Name's Deeks," he replied.

"Good God, boy, whatcha doin' here?" A familiar voice called out. "You was purty bad off the last time I saw ya."

"Branch?" He gasped out with relief, leaning wearily against the door as he holstered his weapon.

"Me and Freeman come back ta look after the old place," he said as he stepped out of the darkness.

"Who's the girl?" Freeman asked, lighting a lantern that filled the barn with a warm glow.

"MacKenzie Blye," he answered, turning back to see her slumped over his mare's neck. "Thurston got his hands on 'er. Horsewhipped her."

The two old men rushed past him to go to her, easing her gently down from the saddle. Branch carried her into the barn and laid her on a small cot in one of the stalls.

"Where'd ya find her, son?" Freeman asked.

"At Thurston's place," he said.

The two old men just stared open-mouthed at him, there eyes silently asking the question.

"I burned him out."

"Knew you were a good man," Branch said slowly. "Just didn't figure you was crazy."

"They'll be hell to pay now," Freeman said, but reached over to squeeze his shoulder.

Deeks sank into the comforting hay next to the cot, his mind fuzzy with exhaustion, unable to move without pain, but he wasn't sorry for what he'd done. He watched the two men tend to MacKenzie, and when she opened her eyes she searched wildly around until she saw him. She reached for him and he took her hand and held it, each finding comfort in the other's touch until their bodies gave in to the need for sleep.

...

...


	15. Chapter 15

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 15_

...

"He's gone."

Joe woke his father with a hollow whisper, but it was his mother's sad response that further inflamed his anger. It was only a soft plaintive cry that was quickly stifled, but it expressed all of his own fear for a man he had begun to care about. His father simply got up from the bed and dressed before stoically walking out to the fireplace to silently poke at the lifeless fire. Joe followed, but said nothing, his words choked off before he could speak them by his rising frustration and his unwillingness to get into an argument with the two deputy marshals who were now stirring.

"You surprised he ran?" Callen asked from the darkness.

"I'm not," Sam called out from his bedroll in the corner.

"He didn't run," George said softly, but without any doubt in his voice. "He's gone and done somethin' stupid I'm guessin', and there ain't nothin' we can do to help him now."

"He might be an idiot, but he's not a coward," Joe said, barely containing his anger at the lawmen's accusations. "I don't know what he's up to, but he didn't want us in on it."

"I don't fault 'im for lookin' out for himself," Sam tried to explain. "Thurston roughed him up plenty."

"Roughed him up?" Joe said angrily. "That bastard nearly killed 'im."

"He isn't lookin' out for himself," Josie said softly as she came into the room. "He did this to protect us."

"The question is...where is he and what is he up to?" Callen wondered.

"Maybe he's just hold up somewhere till this blows over," Sam said.

"Or he went to kill Thurston," Callen replied. "And don't tell me you ain't all thinkin' the same thing."

"If he did, then it's already done," Sam said quietly.

They returned to silence after that, with George tossing new logs on the growing fire with sad resignation as Joe nervously paced the room, muttering empty threats about what he would do to Deeks if he ever got his hands on him. Josie put on a pot of coffee while Callen wrapped up his bedroll, all of them except Sam knowing there would be no more sleep in the remaining hours of the night, his soft snores filling the silence between the others' spare conversations.

After a couple of cups of coffee and a few of Josie's leftover biscuits, Joe headed back out to the barn. He shouldn't have been surprised at being followed by Callen, but it still irritated him, wanting to be alone with his own chaotic thoughts. He climbed the ladder up to the hay loft and dropped down at the opening that overlooked the house and the trail from the creek, letting one leg hang off the edge as he leaned his back against the half opened door. He cocked his rifle and stared out at the barely discernible ridge line, dark purple separated from the deep indigo sky by an emerging band of dull orange. Mist was starting to rise along the creek, lit by the waning moon and he found he was thankful Deeks had at least some light to travel by. He didn't turn his head when he heard Callen climb up to join him, still slightly angry at the two men's response to finding Deeks gone.

"You're worried," Callen said quietly as he leaned on the opposite wall.

It was a statement he didn't need to answer, so he remained silent, his thoughts drawn back to the first time he'd seen Deeks. He'd never been shot before and the pain had shocked him, but he hadn't lost consciousness. Deeks was right, he had made a mistake and he had paid for it, but as often in the last few days as the idiot had tried to get him to admit that, he had staunchly refused, his continual stubbornness making Deeks laugh.

"He saved my life without even thinking about it," Joe murmured. "Charged down that hill right at the rustlers who shot me. Wasn't even holding onto the reins of his horse, just sittin' easy like in the saddle, firing shot after shot until they turned and ran. Never seen anything like it."

"Saw a cavalryman do that once during the war," he replied. "Most of the men thought he was crazy even before that."

"What happened?"

"Johnny Rebs shot 'im to pieces," Callen said softly. "Horse too."

"You think Deeks is crazy?" Joe asked.

"If he's taking on Thurston all on his lonesome, he is."

"Neither one of you think much of 'im, do ya?" Growing angry again as he breathed out the accusation.

"I know he's tough. I know he didn't have to save you or try and save the Muellers, but he did," Callen replied. "No warrants out on 'im, but he did hire on with Thurston. Musta known it was for his skills with a gun."

"Maybe he had a change of heart," Joe reasoned. "Maybe Thurston's the crazy one and Deeks saw that and wanted no part of it."

"So why not let the law handle it?" Callen questioned. "Why charge right at the man?"

"You don't know he did."

"And you don't know he didn't."

"You think he's gonna kill 'im," Joe stated somberly.

"I think maybe he's gonna try."

"What'll you do if he does?"

"Arrest 'im."

"They'll hang 'im, won't they?" Joe said numbly.

"Course we'll hafta catch 'im first," Callen replied calmly. "Then prove it. 'Spect neither one will be easy."

Joe looked up at the man, unsure exactly what he was saying, but sensing the man wasn't as rigid about the letter of the law as he'd first thought. Maybe there was hope.

"Course none of us know what he's done for sure," Callen continued. "Coulda hightailed it like Sam said."

"That ain't what you think, is it?"

"I think he cares about alla you," the marshal replied. "And I don't think he wants to see any of you hurt again. Carin' about someone makes a man do some crazy things."

Callen's eyes were piercing even in the low light and Joe could hear the caution in the man's words.

"Are you talkin' about Deeks or is that a warnin' for me?" Joe asked, tipping his hat back on his head and staring defiantly at the man.

"Let's just say, puttin' yourself between a wanted man and the law ain't wise," he replied, and turned to stare out at the lightening sky.

"I owe 'im," he replied softly.

"Yeah, but I don't think he'd want you to get in trouble cause of his actions," Callen reasoned. "Otherwise he wouldn't have left."

Joe saw the wisdom in his words, and was surprised at his insight, but he just couldn't agree to do nothing if Deeks needed his help. He felt a bond with the man that he couldn't explain. They talked easily about all kinds of things. They talked horses and cattle, guns and even women, especially one woman and they could make each other laugh, and he hadn't had that since Chris had been killed. He hadn't told the marshal about the raw fear that filled him when that bullet had knocked him sideways. Hadn't told him about the rage that followed, believing he would die as his brother had, alone and at the mercy of uncaring men. When he saw Deeks charge in to help him, those feelings of fear and rage had all vanished, and he couldn't explain to anyone the amazing feeling of euphoria that flashed through him when he knew he wasn't going to die. All because of one man. One man hadn't given a damn about the consequences, hadn't considered the craziness of his actions, but had simply thrown his hand in to save him cause he thought it was the right thing to do. He couldn't turn his back on that man. He wouldn't.

They left the remains of their conversation for another time and silently watched the sky lighten and the clouds take on the color of the sun yet to break above the ridge. Joe was lost in thought, but noticed Callen slip his pistol slowly out of its holster before he raised his hand and motioned toward the creek. The hovering mist that obscured the creek suddenly swirled and then parted as a group of riders emerged and galloped toward the ranch with weapons out.

"Stay put," Callen ordered and headed for the ladder.

Joe was about to yell out a warning to his father when he saw him walk out on the porch with Marshal Hanna by his side. They joined Callen by the fence, weapons pointed directly at the men as they approached.

"It's Thurston," Joe shouted, cocking his rifle and sighting it on the man.

Grateful for the growing light, Joe could see how ragged the men looked, several riding bareback, their mounts skittish and agitated as they pulled to a stop not far from the fence. Even Thurston looked disheveled. His shirt and vest were dirty and he wasn't wearing a hat.

"Where is he?" Thurston demanded loudly.

"Who?" George asked.

"Max Gentry," he spit out as if it were a bad taste in his mouth.

"No one here by that name, just like last time," he replied.

"Why you lookin' for 'im?" Callen asked.

"Don't believe we've been introduced," Thurston said, his irritation plain.

"Callen. United States Deputy Marshal," he replied formally. "My partner is Deputy Marshal Sam Hanna."

"Ah yes, I have most certainly heard of you two," he said. "Although I'm not sure whose side you are on since you are rudely pointing a gun at me."

"Just tryin to keep the peace," Callen said easily.

"My ranch was burned out last night, marshal," he said angrily. "That should be your concern."

Joe almost laughed out loud, but simply readjusted his aim and smiled.

"And you think Gentry did it?" Callen asked. "Why? Someone see 'im?"

"No," the man admitted. "But I believe he's responsible and I intend to make him answer for it. Now I demand you bring him out."

"You sent men here for him the other day and I'll tell you what I told them." George answered angrily. "Don't know no one named Max Gentry. Now git the hell off my land, Thurston."

"You are not being very neighborly, Mr. Atwood, as you people like to say," Thurston said haughtily.

"Your men shot my wife," George snarled.

"That is a shame. However, those men didn't work for me," he replied coldly.

"Then who's that ugly fella on your left?" Joe shouted down. "Saw him take a shot at me plain as day."

The rider jerked back on the reins, looking wildly at Thurston as his horse trampled the ground nervously. When his boss ignored him, he swung his mount around and charged back toward the creek. Sam fired before Joe had a chance, knocking the man to the ground where he lay gripping his arm and moaning.

"I had no knowledge of that man's actions," Thurston said quickly.

"Of course you didn't, Mr. Thurston. Now, let me ask you a question," Callen said calmly. "Wasn't Jim Hedges one of your men?"

"Possibly. I employ quite a few men," he replied, but moved nervously in his saddle. "They come and go. Why do you ask?"

"He led a raiding party that burned out the Muellers north of Fort Steele," Callen said, growing surly.

"Such a tragedy, but surely you're not accusing me, marshal," the man said smugly. "I would be greatly offended if you were."

"You said Gentry had reason to burn you out," Sam's voice boomed out. "What might that be?"

"That is between myself and Mr. Gentry," he replied. "No need for the law to get involved. I can administer my own justice."

"That would make you a vigilante, Mr. Thurston," Callen said. "Is that what you are?"

"I have no home and my ranch is in ruins," he hissed. "And I will find the person responsible and deal with him. I believe you call it 'frontier justice'."

"Yeah, we don't allow that much anymore," Callen sniped. "We call it progress."

"I'll remember that," Thurston remarked. "Perhaps it would be better to see him hanged for his transgressions."

"Tough to prove if you got no witnesses," Callen said.

"I'm not worried about that, Marshall Callen," he replied. "I'm sure the Territorial Governor and the local federal judge will take my word for it."

He swung his horse around and the bedraggled crew followed, walking their horses back toward the misty creek, the sun now climbing behind the clouds. He stopped briefly to speak to the wounded man, who was frantically trying to mount his horse, but the animal trotted away, leaving the man standing alone. Joe watched, still on alert as Sam walked through the gate as the man turned toward him and raised his one good arm in surrender. Clambering quickly down the ladder, Joe joined the group just as Josie came out of the house.

"You think he did it?" Joe asked quietly.

"Well, if he did he's one crazy sonofabitch," Callen replied.

"You got no proof of that, Marshal Callen," Josie said with a smile from the porch.

...

Deeks woke slowly, surprised by the rough blanket that had been thrown over him, and the comforting sound of horses quietly chewing their breakfast oats. He clawed at a few strands of straw clinging to his unruly hair, but other than that he had no urge to move, content to listen to the familiar sounds of his mare as she finished her meal with a long drink, sloshing the water around like she always did. He could hear Branch and Freeman talking softly some distance away, but he had no interest in understanding what was said, still drawn with exhaustion. Gingerly moving one leg to assess his strength, he hissed at the pain that sparkled around his right ankle and shot up to his knee. His body jerked in response and he caught his breath as a wide ribbon of dull pain wrapped around his ribs and he cursed softly and lay still until it passed.

Drifting a bit, he stared up at the rafters, watching lively barn swallows flit and dive around a series of mud nests tucked up against the beams, their warbling songs innocent in the muted morning light. It made him wonder if Thurston's barn had burned, but he recoiled from the sudden memory, unwilling to allow thoughts of that bastard to intrude on the new day. He did think of the Atwoods, but it was with regret. He hoped they would remember him kindly, and forgive him over time for his abrupt disappearance without a word of thanks for all they had done for him. There weren't enough words to express what their kindness meant to him, and he was saddened he had left them with no idea of what had happened to him. He could never go back, knowing it would be dangerous for them, and he felt guilty about that, and heavyhearted over the loss of their friendship. They deserved more, but were better off without him and any connection to what he had done. Even though there would be no proof he was responsible, there would always be suspicions and he wouldn't saddle them with even a hint they were in cahoots with him.

A sharp hiss followed by a low whimper dispelled his thoughts and he forced himself up so he could see her. When he was settled against the railing of the stall he could see she was panting heavily, trying to control the pain and his heart went out to her.

"Try not to move," he advised.

Then he heard her mumble something and cry out and he realized she wasn't awake at all, but caught in a nightmare or a fever. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and forced himself over onto his knees, waiting until some of the ache faded into dullness before he crawled to the cot and eased down beside it. She was tightly clutching the blanket, her white hand stark against the dark blue color, her knuckles bruised and cut, and crusted with dried blood. She had fought him, and he reached up and laid his hand over hers and she slowly grew still. There were blue gray imprints on her upper arms where rough hands had held her, and a deep anger almost made him gag over what they must have done to her. There were no adequate words to describe a man who would do this to a woman and his mind clouded with memories of dark bruises he had grown used to seeing on his mother and his father's excuses echoed in his mind.

He felt her go rigid and she suddenly jerked her hand away and raise her head, her hands curling instantly into fists as she looked wildly at him, her dark eyes flashing a warning.

"I won't hurt you," he said, but leaned back in case she tried to hit him.

Her cheeks were flush with high color and a sheen of sweat glistened on her face and neck. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, but the look on her face was almost feral and he wasn't sure she knew who he was or cared. She was ready to fight him and for some reason it made him smile.

"You're safe," he said gently. "So, promise you ain't gonna hit me. Don't think I'm up for it."

She nodded and grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to her throat, eyeing him suspiciously. She stared at him as if trying to fight her fearful memories, and a tear slid down her cheek as she slowly broke down. Her terrible sobs tore at him, and he choked back a curse when she rolled away from him and drew her knees up, her hands covering her face as she cried out her anguish. He wanted to comfort her, but didn't think it would be welcomed, so he simply sat beside her as she cried, fighting down emotions new to him.

"Sorry," she finally said.

"For what?"

"I'm tougher than this," she whispered, as she eased onto her back, grimacing at the renewed pain.

"Damn tough," he said. "And it's me should be saying sorry. That bastard took you to try and find me. I'm havin' real trouble with that."

"If you hadn't come..." Tears started again, but they were silent ones.

This time he did reach for her and she grabbed his hand and gripped it almost painfully tight. He could feel her trembling and he edged closer and began tucking the blanket in around her body. When he looked up, she was watching him with tired eyes shimmering with tears, and a sad fear that hinted at something unspoken.

"He hired Black Jack Wallace to capture me," she said, watching for his reaction.

He blanched at the name, his face white hot all of a sudden, knowing how vicious the man was and he squeezed her hand and searched her eyes. He'd heard stories about his treatment of women and had seen evidence of it after coming down out of the Bitterroots to Fort Missoula for supplies. The town was young and rough, but there was already a saloon with girls and a resident gambler. He should have stayed clear, but he hadn't seen a woman in several months, and the lure was too strong. He'd gone there expecting to be entertained and to shake off the loneliness of his solitary existence the last few months spent trapping. Instead, what he'd found in that little saloon were three devastated women mourning the loss of one of their own. No one else seemed to care that a saloon girl had been brutally beaten and violated, not even the commander of the fort and what passed for a sheriff. When one of the girls told him the name of the man responsible he had gathered his supplies and mounted up, heading back up into the Bitterroot Mountains. The man had been tracking him for over a year, and he had almost stumbled into him in that mean little town. Now, that same man had taken someone he cared about and had delivered her into the hands of a crazy shit bastard and he was getting real tired of both of them.

"Did he...?" The words wouldn't come, but she shook her head slowly.

"He roughed me up and..." She swallowed back a flush of tears and looked away. "I gotta a couple of good kicks in, though."

"Bet you did," he replied with a quick grin. "Saw the bruises on your knuckles."

"The bastard's eye should be good and black by now," she said, her voice growing stronger as they talked.

"Thurston's or Wallace?" He asked bitterly. "Both of 'em deserve a lot more than a good punch in the eye."

"Thurston," she whispered. "He said I should be grateful that he treated me like a lady...instead of giving me to..."

"No need to say nothin' more, Kenzie," he interrupted, not sure why she was telling him something so painful. "You're safe now."

"You were so gentle with me...so sweet," she whispered. "And I wanted to stay with you that night, but I was afraid."

"I would never hurt you," he said, surprised she had brought it up.

"I know...but just your touch made me feel weak...like I couldn't control myself," she said. "That scared me. I've had to be tough for so long."

"Yeah," he replied softly with understanding. "You're a strong woman, Kenzie. It's one of the things I admire about you."

"Not strong enough," she said angrily. "I couldn't fight 'im off. I shoulda been able to, but..."

"Black Jack still ride with that Pawnee scout?" He asked, watching as she nodded, but it was reluctantly. "That'd be two against one, then."

There was something painful behind her eyes, as if she thought that was an excuse she shouldn't be allowed to use. There was an old story there, but he wouldn't question her about it. He had no right to do that.

"Thurston's too much of a coward to take on someone tough as you," he continued, trying to get her to go easy on herself. "I'm bettin' he had some help tyin' you down."

She nodded again with a look of pure anger flashing in her unusual dark eyes and he was having trouble not pulling her into his arms. They had both suffered at the hands of the same man. It connected them—gave them a common enemy. Two common enemies. Two men who wanted them both dead, and he was at a loss about what to do next. She needed time to recover and have her wounds treated somewhere that wasn't buzzing with horseflies or filled with old hay that smelled of manure. He felt a deep urge to protect her, but wasn't sure that them staying together was in her best interest. He could feel the heat of fever on her skin, and he had no need to see her back to know how painful those lashes remained.

"I should have let you shoot 'im," his anger at what she'd endured suddenly overwhelming. "That arrogant sonofabitch horsewhipped you, dammit. You had the right."

"So do you," she said evenly.

"I wanted him to know how it feels to have your home burned to the ground," he said. "I wanted him to live with it...to have no place to go."

"You think that man has normal feelings?" She asked. "He's not right in the head, Deeks. He believed I needed a lesson in manners...that's why he horsewhipped me. He thought it would teach me respect. He's a madman, Deeks, and he's sending Jack after you. He wants you punished for surviving what he did to you."

"But he had no reason to punish you," his voice deeply sad and rough and she squeezed his hand in response.

"A man like that don't need a reason," she mumbled, growing increasingly restless and shivering.

He reached out and wiped a lingering tear from her cheek and smoothed her hair off her forehead, noticing the touch of fever was causing her to shiver again. She slowly drifted back into a restless sleep and he watched her for a while, hoping his anger might cool. He was afraid the open slashes on her back might have become infected and he quickly looked around for the Muellers. She needed to be taken care of and there was a doctor at Fort Steele. He wanted her someplace safe where Thurston wouldn't dare attack her again and where Black Jack Wallace wouldn't have the nerve to touch her.

"How's she doin', boy?" Branch asked as he leaned over the top rail.

"Fever's worse," he said. "She needs a doctor, and somethin' for the pain."

"Did our best to clean her wounds..." He stopped and hung his head before continuing. "Made Freeman and me sick ta see what that devil did to 'er. Thought I'd seen it all when I saw what he done to you, but to do a woman like that...well, there just ain't no accountin' for that kinda evil."

"Will you take 'er to Fort Steele?" He asked.

"What about you, kid?" Freeman asked as he joined them. "You ain't in great shape yet yourself."

"Got a man after me. Won't stop till he kills me or I kill him," he said as he struggled to his feet. "He's the one took 'er to Thurston. She needs to get shed of me. Safer for 'er."

"'Spect that makes sense," Freeman said.

"Where ya headed' boy?" Branch asked softly, as he reached out to help him as he stumbled out of the stall.

"Arapaho reservation," he said as he made his way to his saddle. "Small band under Chief Little Shield at the North end by Owl Creek. Made a friend there. Man named Hand, or Beecét as they call 'im. Means handful of stars or clouds or somethin'."

"How'd ya come to be friends with an Indian?" Freeman asked. Scratching his head and looking a bit bewildered.

"Saved his life I guess, or at least they think I did...well, probably did," he said, grinning shyly, and feeling embarrassed to reveal even that small bit of the story. "Little Shield said I could come back anytime. Sorta adopted me. Seems like a good place to hide out for a while."

"Long as they don't scalp ya," Branch laughed.

"They looked out for me...fed me too. Not much food either," he said as he led his mare out and began to saddle her, smiling softly. "Called me Wox-Winòt. Means bear in the belly, cause my stomach growled a lot. Kinda like it. Hand just called me Bear."

He laughed suddenly, realizing he'd been rambling. He was sad to leave everyone behind, especially Kenzie. He knew it was for the best, but it was the first time in so very long that he felt at home in a place and comfortable around the people.

"Will ya be comin' back this way?" Branch asked solemnly.

Both men were watching him closely and he thought he saw a hint of sadness at his leaving. They were good folks and it still pained him that they had lost their home.

"Could you tell Sarah I'm real sorry about the house?" he asked. "Wanted more than anythin' to warn you."

"Ya tried your best, boy," Freeman said as he squeezed his shoulder. "It's all a man can do. We'll build us another one. Sarah's already got some plans for a bigger place. So if'n ya ever come back this way, you gotta place to hang your hat for a spell."

"'Preciate it, sir," he said, shaking each man's hand. "If I'm close, I'm sure to smell one of Sarah's pies. Wouldn't miss a taste of one of those for nothin'."

He grew silent then as did the two old men, and they went about the business of hitching up a team of horses to the wagon that would carry MacKenzie to Fort Steele. When they woke her, she had high color on her cheeks and her skin glistened with sweat, but she seemed sad when he told her where she was going.

"Aren't you comin' too?" She asked as he helped her sit up.

"I burned down a ranch, Kenzie," he said. "If Thurston believes it was me, I could be arrested. Hell, they've hung men for less."

"But no one saw you," she persisted.

"All he has to do is accuse me, and they'll throw me behind bars. Can't stomach that," he said. "Besides, Black Jack will be huntin' me, and if I leave, he'll follow. One less bastard around for folks to deal with."

"And if he catches you?" She asked petulantly.

"Guess we'll finally find out who's faster on the draw," he grinned cockily. "That'd be me, of course."

She smiled at that, but looked less than convinced, making no comment as he helped her to her feet. She held onto him as she gathered herself, blowing out a couple of breaths trying to manage the pain. Their closeness affected both of them, and he was finding it hard to control his body's reaction to her as she stared up at him with dark, vulnerable eyes. When she reached up and brushed his hair back and caressed his cheek, it was if he'd been struck by lightning. He could barely breathe, her touch light and tender as she slid her hand down to his chest, pressing it against his heart.

"Don't you go and get yourself killed," she pleaded softly. "I couldn't live with that."

"So, you'd miss me?" He asked, his smile spreading at the implication.

"He's fast, Deeks," she said solemnly. "And mean as hell. He won't play fair."

"I won't forget what he did to you, Kenzie," he replied, pulling her close. "You take care of yourself. I'll find you when this is done."

"You better keep that promise," she replied with a small soft smile. "Or I'll track you down, Martin Agnar Deeks. You know I can."

"Yes I do, MacKenzie Blye," he nodded with a cocky grin that faded quickly. "You found me once and I haven't forgotten that."

"We're even now," she whispered and stepped into his embrace, stunning him. "We can start over."

"I'd like that," he whispered into her hair, holding her gently so he didn't hurt her.

It took them awhile to notice the two Mueller brothers standing just outside the stall, Branch wheezing out a laugh behind his hand while poking Freeman in the ribs with his elbow.

"Told ya so, old man," Branch said.

"Hesh up, ya old lunkhead. I ain't blind," Freeman said, shoving his brother away. "Best we all getta goin', son, If ya can tear yourself away."

"They might figure you for a long rider now, boy, and send a posse along," Branch said, turning serious. "Best you skedaddle now. Put some distance 'tween you and that devil. Looks to be the vengeful sort."

"He's right," Kenzie said and stepped out of his arms, leaving him feeling empty and full of regret. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"You too," he replied, the words sticking in his throat.

She picked up his buckskin jacket and pressed it into his hands, hers covering his as he accepted it. Brushing past him she locked arms with Freeman and Branch and walked slowly toward the wagon.

"Find your marshal friends and tell them everything, Kenzie," he said, flaring with anger as he saw how weak she was. "Tell anyone who'll listen what that sonofabitch did to you."

"I will," she said, stopping and turning back to look at him.

"Might as well add a couple of ugly ol' lawmen to the list of people after me," he laughed, running a hand through his hair before shoving his hat on and pulling it down low over his eyes.

"I won't tell 'em you were there," she promised.

"Mighta guessed already, I'm thinkin'," he said with resignation, his hand resting easily on the butt of his Colt.

"They'll go after Thurston first," she told him. "Now put on your pretty jacket and vamoose."

She smiled warmly at him as he slipped it on, her eyes bright with unshed tears. He couldn't take his eyes off of her as the two old ranchers helped her up into the bed of straw in the back of the wagon, waiting until she got settled before he mounted up.

"Give her a rifle, Branch," he said. "Just in case."

He followed the wagon out of the barn and watched as they headed down the trail along the creek. He would never forget her remarkable eyes, or that soft smile that sent fire racing through his veins. He wanted to memorize her face and her long black hair and how it cascaded over her shoulders, not sure how long it would be before he saw her again, or if he ever would. They watched each other until the wagon followed the bend in the creek and disappeared behind a big stand of cottonwood trees. He closed his eyes for a brief second, trying to calm his emotions so he could leave, opening them when Sheila snorted and pawed at the ground, impatient to get moving. He gave her the lead and she headed toward the creek and the ridge above, and he urged her to hurry, thinking he might be able to see the wagon one last time before he had to turn north. As he headed up to the high point on the ridge, the sun cracked over the western mountains, and growing thunderheads were rising over the wind whipped prairie grasses, hinting at harsher weather to come. He pulled his buckskin tightly around him and waited for the wagon to come into view, occasionally scanning the barren stretches to the south. It could simply be a gust of wind, but the cloud of dust continued, warning him that his time had run out.

"They're comin', ol' girl."

He got one final view of the wagon before it cut into a draw, but then turned Sheila north and kicked her into a long loping gallop, determined to survive and keep his promise to return.

...

...


	16. Chapter 16

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 16_

...

His fingers clutched at the mare's thick mane as he fought a wave of dizziness that threatened to topple him from her back. The heavy splattering of raindrops melded with the pounding pace of his mare's hoof beats, the rhythmic sound now roaring in his ears. He eased their speed a bit when they passed through Muddy Gap and began to climb up the low reaches of the eastern side of Whiskey Peak, but the long ride had aggravated the pain from his broken ribs and he struggled to stay in the saddle. The brush was heavy here, and thankfully it slowed them even more. He was hoping he could find an overlook to see if he was still being followed, but a rushing torrent of runoff cut across the trail they were on, and he was forced to backtrack and try to find another way up.

Clouds of heavy mist shrouded the peak above them, and he finally pulled Sheila to a halt in a high meadow to give them both a brief rest. He sat hunched over her neck, and waited to catch his breath, praying the pain would ease off so he could continue. The mare must have sensed all was not right and looked back at him, nickering softly as if to encourage him. He had ridden her fairly hard for almost three hours, but she was a tough old girl and though she snorted and groaned, her ears were pricked and he could feel her tremble, anxious as he was to keep moving. In this weather it would be hard to see who and how many were tracking him, and there would be no dust cloud to tip off their location.

"You hear anything, girl?" He asked, wiping his face with his soaking wet bandana as he scanned the plains below.

She whinnied loudly and he turned to look back across the open ground at a stand of yellow pine, seeing a small herd of wild horses waiting out the storm under their branches. If it was Black Jack Wallace on his tail, he knew Curly, his Pawnee scout, would be able to track him even in the rain, so he smiled and turned Sheila toward the herd. If he got them moving down toward the gap and could run with them for a ways, even Curly, as good as he was would have trouble telling which hoof prints belonged to Sheila when he cut away. There was a lot of open country up ahead, and if he could lose them here, he might have a chance.

"Let's go meet your cousins."

A black and white pinto stallion broke from the small herd to challenge them, its head held high and its course mane blowing wildly in the wind. When they kept coming, he reared and snorted, but then turned and began to nip at the other horses to get them moving. The herd suddenly bolted and began a mad dash down through the sagebrush, their different colors flashing in the grayness of the day. Deeks laughed as they charged in amongst the running mares, colts and yearlings, ignoring the pain and simply enjoying the freewheeling dash down the rugged slope. His heart raced with joy at the sense of freedom he felt as the herd tore across the low foothills at the base of the mountain. Leaping and splashing through rivulets of runoff as they rushed down the hill, the horses fanned out when they hit the plain, their hooves thundering on the harder ground. He could see a line of willows in the distance and began to herd the horses toward it, feeling himself growing weaker as the race continued. He would need to stop soon and if he could cut upstream for a ways, he felt he would lose his pursuers and earn himself a rest.

By the time they reached the creek he was gasping with exhaustion, and the wild horses had grown tired as well, slowing their pace as they cut through the wind whipped willows. The runoff from the storm had swollen the creek, but the stallion paused only briefly before leading his herd into the rushing water. Deeks pulled Sheila to a halt and she buried her nose in the cold water, pawing at it as he watched the herd do the same. The milling horses seemed to take no notice of him, but the stallion stood boldly on the other side watching them.

"Think you got an admirer, Sheila," he said as he dragged his hat off and leaned wearily over her neck, bracing himself with a trembling hand. "Best we get a move on before that handsome devil makes you his next conquest."

Sheila shook her head and snorted as he turned her upstream, leaving the wild herd behind. He was grateful the stream was shallow and somewhat straight and Sheila plowed through it easily, seeming to enjoy splashing through the water. His head began to droop and when he jerked awake one too many times, he began to seek out a place to rest for a little while. Not wanting to leave the creek too soon, he persevered a while longer until he saw a bend in the stream and large flat layer of rock jutting into the water.

"There's our way out, girl," he whispered, as he clung to the saddle. "They ain't gonna find your pretty little hoof marks on that."

Clambering up the slab of rock, they found themselves next to a low cliff face sheltered by scrub pine with rugged boulders big enough to screen them from the creek. Deeks slid slowly from the saddle, practically dead on his feet, holding tightly to the saddle horn as he walked Sheila up into a wide crevice between the rocks. He leaned against her, one arm wrapped protectively over his ribs, breathing heavily with exhaustion, and shivering against the cold in his wet clothes. He couldn't make a fire for fear of signaling where he was, so he pulled his bedroll down and stumbled deeper into a somewhat dry crevice under the limbs of a low growing pine. Once he spread out the bedroll he collapsed to his knees, hissing at the pain as he stretched out and rolled over onto his back. The scent of pine and damp earth was the last thing he remembered before sleep took him.

...

A sharp poke in his sore ribs woke him and he jerked his head up and sucked in a painful breath as he fumbled for a gun that was no longer in his holster. When the cold muzzle of a long rifle was pressed into the base of his throat, he froze and looked up into the face of a grizzled old man with a dirty white beard and a floppy, wide brimmed hat, dripping with rain. He was wearing a heavy dark brown canvas duster that hung down to the top of his boots, which were coated in mud. There was a wildness in his pale eyes, and he was working a chaw of tobacco and slowly scratching himself.

"Might wanna raise them hands," he grunted. "Cause I might just shoot ya dead if'n ya don't. Don't got a lot a patience with strangers."

"Name's Deeks," choking when the old man shoved the muzzle down hard as he spoke.

"Didn't ask. Don't care," the man said. "Ain't seen ya round these parts afore. Ya on the run?"

"Just headed up north to Owl Creek," he replied softly.

"Right nice hoss there," he said as he settled down on a boulder. "Could use a nice hoss like that."

"She don't like strangers neither," he spit out, angry now and trying to figure a way out of this.

"Long way to Owl Creek," he reasoned and spit a stream of nasty tobacco juice between his feet. "Rough on a nice hoss like that."

"We'll make it," he said hopefully, having no idea what this man might do.

"No folks livin' up there I know of, 'cept injuns," he said, peering at him intently. "Looks like ya got roughed up a might some time back. Saw ya wince when I poked ya. Broke ribs?"

"Couple."

"Hate that," he replied and eased back on the rifle. "Cain't breathe proper. Hell ridin' too. Where ya comin' from, kid?"

"You with Black Jack Wallace?" Tired of the questions and the gun to his throat.

"Don't know the man," he snarled, and pressed a boot into his side. "Now answer my gol darn question, kid. Where ya comin' from?"

"Started out from the Mueller place at dawn," he whispered, closing his eyes as he fought the fiery pain pulsing against the man's boot.

"You know 'em or jist stop for the night?" He asked warily, and pressed harder on his ribs.

"Friends," he gasped.

"Well shit, young fella," he laughed, removing his foot and raising the rifle. "Those folks is friends of mine, too. Now ya got my mouth waterin' for one of Sarah's pies. Damn fine cook that woman. How they all doin'?"

He let out a shaky breath and lay his head back on the blanket, waiting for the pain to subside before he answered the crazy old sonofabitch.

"Give me my gun, old man," he hissed as he struggled to sit up.

"I ain't old," the man argued. "Coot's older'n me. How is that old son-of-a-gun?"

"Got shot when they was raided," he said, quietly watching the man's reaction.

"By who?" He demanded, gripping the rifle tightly as if ready to use it.

"Rancher named Thurston."

"Did they kill 'im?" Looking relieved when Deeks shook his head no. "Sarah okay? Freeman? Branch?"

"They're all good, but they lost the house. Burned 'em out," he replied. "They're staying over by Fort Steele till they can rebuild."

"Dammit ta hell," he said quietly. "Them was kind folks. Had me to sit down suppers a few times. Not many'd do that for an ol' codger like me."

"Can I go now?" Deeks asked.

"Ya like fish?" The old man suddenly asked. "Caught some dandy trout this mornin'. Ya sound hungry. Belly's growlin'."

Deeks struggled to his feet, intending to leave as soon as the man handed over his Colt, but he stepped on a loose rock, and cried out at the unexpected pain. He stumbled into the old man, who caught him with a strong arm and held him upright until he could regain his composure.

"You ain't in no shape ta ride, kid."

"The hell I ain't," he spit out angrily. "Now give me my damn gun and I'll be on my way."

"I knew it," he cackled. "Yore runnin' from that Wallace feller ain't ya? How come?"

"Long story," he said as the man finally handed him back his gun.

"He the one burned out the Muellers?"

"Works for 'im."

"It'll be dark afore long, and more rain's comin'. North a here's rough country," the old man said, looking up into the darkening clouds. "Gotta little cabin a few miles up in yonder hills. Ya can hunker down for the night and git a fresh start in the mornin'. Got those trout, too. Ain't the cook Sarah is, but unless ya got somethin' better in them saddle bags, it's a hell of an offer."

"First you want to shoot me, and now you wanna fix me supper?"

"Cold camp with no fire and I'm guessin' no food, or trout and beans and a warm fire," he said, eying him curiously. "Ain't gonna beg, so make up yore mind, kid."

Deeks brushed past him and Sheila to look for any sign that Wallace or whoever was following was close by, but he saw and heard nothing. A soft rain began again, dappling the water of a small eddy at his feet and he realized just how much the last couple of days had exhausted him. He knelt and scooped up a handful of cold water to quench his thirst, wiping at his scruffy beard as he contemplated the old man's offer. He'd been on a horse for a night and half a day, riding hard with nothing to eat and he was bone tired. He wasn't sure about the strange old man, but he knew the Muellers and he trusted their instincts.

"I'd say ya lost 'em," the old man said quietly behind him. "Won't let 'em track us, kid. Ain't nobody better'n me at coverin' my tracks."

"Sounds like you're the one on the run," he replied, rising to stare at the man, but grinning a bit.

"Didn't say I weren't," he cracked a smile at that, revealing a missing tooth and a gold one. "You comin'?"

"What's your name?" He asked without moving.

"Napoleon Bonaparte Irish," he replied. "But folks call me Nap."

"Pretty big name to live up to," Deeks said with a grin, loosening up a little.

"My ma had some book learnin'. Had a picture book with that fella in it. Said she liked the sound of it," he said.

"'Spect you're not as famous as your namesake," Deeks said.

"I'm purtier though," he said, huffing out a short laugh. "Man did have a right big white horse. All's I got is my mule. Better'n a hoss in the backcountry."

Deeks shook his head, growing bemused by the man now that he didn't have that big rifle pointed at him. After gathering up his bedroll, he led Sheila down to the edge of the stream and looked for the old man. He hadn't heard him leave and he wondered if he'd changed his mind, but then heard an odd whinny with a squeaking hiccup at the end. Sheila returned the call, but backed up as if on guard.

"Come on, kid. Gonna be a gully washer right soon," Nap said from the back of a big black mule. "Don't tail too close. Molly here tends to kick now and again."

Sheila snorted as if she understood, and when he urged her on, she waited a bit before following. He second-guessed himself a few times over his decision to go with this strange character, especially when they cut up through a steep gully that caused Sheila to stumble more than once. The mule had no trouble and Nap called back encouragement of a sort, laughing as he disparaged his mare. After making a high ridge, it was easy going until the sky split open and dumped hail down on them. By the time they reached the shelter of a forest of yellow pine, he was shivering violently, and wondering just how much farther they had to go. He was practically numb with cold when they reached a long meadow that ended at a granite rock face skirted with pines. Tucked beneath was a tiny log cabin and a corral that circled a low stable decorated with the antlers of deer, elk and moose, plus the impressive skull of a bighorn sheep. He followed Nap into the corral and slid out of the saddle, his body stiff and hurting.

"Git on inside. I'll see to the animals," Nap said as he took the reins from his hand.

The high corral fence was made of thin birch trees lashed together, their whiteness standing out starkly in the diminishing light, and he gripped the top rail to keep on his feet. Lightning crackled behind the black clouds, the thunder echoing off the cliff face as he trudged through the mud to the rough wooden door. He had barely placed his hand on the latch when he heard a deep growl that ended in a distinctive snarl and he stepped back.

"Nap?"

"Yep?"

"Get many wolves around here?"

"Naw," he said as he walked out of the stable. "Just got the one. Ain't nobody gonna bother my stuff with Gray Boy watchin'."

"Coulda warned me," he mentioned lightly.

"Weren't be no fun if I had," he replied with a laugh. "Had some men land on their backside when they opened that there door and looked in those yeller eyes."

"Think I'm too tired to move much," Deeks said as he leaned against the rough log wall.

The old man eyed him critically before pushing open the door, and waving his hand at the big wolf waiting inside. The animal turned and trotted over to a ragged blanket by the stone fireplace and laid down, his eyes on Deeks as he made his way inside. Nap hung his duster and hat on an antler nailed to the wall before lighting a couple of lanterns and busying himself building a fire, while Deeks pulled off his hat and slapped the water from it. There wasn't much room inside, but as the fire caught the warmth gave it a cozy feel. There were more antlers over the fireplace, but smaller ones from pronghorn antelopes. His attention was drawn to a framed daguerreotype of a woman in a frilly hat that sat beside the lantern on a crude table under the only window. It looked out of place, but he didn't want to pry and was almost too tired to ask about it. Sloughing off his buckskin jacket, he hung it on one of the wooden pegs along the wall, water dripping from it and pooling on the hard packed dirt floor.

"Git over here by the fire, kid, and git warm afore ya catch your death," the old man said kindly. "Ya looked at be soaked through. I gotta dry shirt ya can have, so git on outa those wet clothes."

Deeks did as he was told, thankful not to have to think or move much. He sat down in the chair in front of the fire and struggled to get his boots off, but the effort tired him and caused the pain in his ribs to flare. The old man noticed and grunted, grabbing his leg and yanking off first one boot and then the other. Deeks tried to protest, but when he raised his voice, the wolf growled so he shut up.

"Get shed a that there wet shirt now," Nap ordered as he moved over to a deep wooden chest against the far wall.

Deeks fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, his fingers still numb from the cold, but he finally managed and stripped the shirt off, leaving him chilled. The old man stood up from the chest holding a dark blue flannel shirt and said something to himself Deeks couldn't hear. He watched as the old man patted the shirt and then looked at him with a sad smile.

"Belonged ta my boy," he said quietly. "He was about yore size. Grizzly kilt him up on the Yellowstone three winters ago."

"I'm sorry."

The man handed him the shirt without a word and went back outside, leaving him with a very attentive wolf. Keeping a wary eye on the animal, he undid his bandana and stood to hang it on one of the antlers to dry. A soft growl slowed his movements, but he was shivering so he slowly slipped on the shirt and buttoned himself into its warmth. Easing back down into the chair, he scooted out of his socks and then his pants, leaving him in his long johns, but feeling warmer, now that the fire was blazing. A loud clap of thunder brought a whimper from the big gray wolf and he moved nervously further back in the corner.

"It's okay boy," Deeks offered softly. "It won't hurt ya."

The animal whined and put his head down between his paws and stared back at him, but leaped to his feet as another loud crack of thunder rumbled overhead.

"You're kind of a scaredy cat for a wolf," he said with a smile.

The animal dipped his head and whined, but another rolling crash had him scampering over to Deeks to lean against his leg with his head buried under his arm. He began to slowly rub the wolf's ears, talking softly to calm him and the animal groaned and leaned into his touch. The heat from the fire and from the wolf caused him to doze off but he woke with a start when the door closed.

"Ain't seen 'im take to no one like that afore," Nap said as he knelt down by the fire.

"The thunder scared 'im," Deeks said sleepily.

The old man huffed out a laugh as he laid a cedar plank on an iron grid over the coals at the edge of the fire and slapped two cleaned trout on top. Deeks' mouth watered and his stomach growled and Gray Boy whined and cocked his head at the odd sound. Nap moved quickly to the small table in the far corner that served as a kitchen, the one shelf lined with canned beans and preserves, and sacks of flour and sugar. He dipped his hand into one sack and pulled out a handful of bitter smelling coffee beans and funneled them into a grinder before bringing it over and handing it to Deeks.

"Make yoreself useful, kid," he said, before grabbing the tail of each trout and flipping it over. "I'll set the beans on ta heat."

Deeks was finding it hard to stay awake, lulled by the repetitive motion of grinding the coffee and the incredible smell of food and the hot fire. He didn't remember Nap taking the grinder from his hands and by the time the cans of beans were heated and the trout on tin plates, he was barely keeping his head up. The food revived him somewhat, and when Nap began to talk about California his curiosity was stirred enough to bring him out of his stupor.

"Ya ever been there, kid?"

"I was born in Bodie," he replied, poking at the remains of his beans.

"Don't that beat all," breathed out. "Heard tell it was a hard scrabble town. Never got that far south myself. Started gold pannin' in Amador City in forty-nine, then worked my way south to Moke Hill, then Angels Camp. My boy was born there. Be a mite older'n you, if'n he'd lived."

"You strike it rich?" Deeks asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

"In a way," he replied. "Married a purty little girl in San Andreas. Best thing I got outa Californy. Only gold I found had made into this here gold tooth. Reminder of what I lost tryin' ta find the worthless stuff."

"That her in the tintype?" He asked.

"That'd be Gracie. Lost her to scarlet fever while I was off lookin' for gold," he replied, his voice hoarse with sadness. "Don't got no picture of my boy, Jesse."

Deeks didn't know what to say, but Nap didn't seem to notice, just poured them each a cup of coffee and stared into the fire.

"Yore daddy find what he was lookin' for in Bodie?"

Deeks just shook his head looked down at his coffee, unwilling to speak about the man.

"Guess most of us git ta thinkin' somethin's more important than needs be," Nap said. "Find yoreself a good woman ta share the hardships with, kid. Makes this tough ol' life worth livin'."

"Think I already have," he replied, surprising himself.

"She know that?"

"Not sure."

"Time's a wastin' young fella," Nap said. "Ya don't know how much time ya have in this here world. Best ta grab ahold a what makes ya happy afore somethin' takes it away."

Nap's words were filled with sorrow and regret, making his words powerful, even more so considering the tough old man they were coming from. He turned to look at the tiny photograph, remembering Kenzie's dark hair and mesmerizing eyes and he smiled to himself. He would find her again, determined not to let anyone stand in his way of doing just what the old man advised. He'd never met anyone like her. She stirred his passion as no woman ever had and he knew he would live to regret it if he didn't find out if she felt the same.

"Yore bedroll's still a mite damp, so ya can take my cot," Nap said softly. "Ya need the rest from the look of ya. Me and Gray Boy like sleepin' by the fire."

The man's kindness surprised him, but he was dead tired and offered no protest, gratefully collapsing onto the rumpled bed. He felt the man cover him with a blanket and mention that he would be gone early the next morning, but his mind became muddled after that and for the first time that day he felt safe and sleep came easily.

...

He woke to the shrill cry of a hawk and rolled over onto his back and stretched out full length, listening to the sound of a couple of squirrels scampering over the roof. He recalled Nap telling him he would be gone early, so he eased up and swung his legs over the side of the cot and assessed his aches and pains. He needed to see to Sheila, so he forced himself to ignore the lingering ache around his midsection as he gripped the edge of the cot and pushed up, putting his full weight on his feet, testing their tenderness, but knowing he had no choice but to endure the dull pain that still remained. Nap had the fire burning and the coffee pot rested next to it along with a battered tin cup. He smiled and poured out the bitter liquid the man claimed was the best coffee he would ever have, and grimaced at the first swallow. He sat and pulled on his boots and quickly gulped the last couple of mouthfuls of the vile stuff. He ran his hand through his messy hair and shoved his hat on and headed out the door.

Thankfully, the sky was clear but for a few harmless, drifting clouds, and he sighed with relief. He saw that Sheila had her nose in a pile of fresh hay and looked content and he found himself grateful for Nap's simple kindness. He noticed a wide shelf under the window held a full bucket of water and a chunk of nasty looking soap was resting on a couple of old flour sacks and he smiled and took the hint, hanging his hat on the deer antler over the window and quickly shed his shirt. He had to admit he did smell, but hadn't thought the old man would notice, considering he lived with a wolf. The cold water felt good and the harsh soap scrubbed him mostly clean, at least from the waist up. He was drying his face when he heard a gun cocked and then two more, and slowly lowered the makeshift towel to his chest. He had left his gun inside and was angry that he had let his guard down so completely.

"Don't make no sudden moves, mister," a nasally Southern voice told him. "Me and my brothers here got no reservations about gettin' rough with you."

"Whadda you want?" Deeks asked as he slowly turned to look at the man.

"Is it him, Ike?" A younger man asked breathlessly.

"Fits the description," Ike replied.

The three were rough looking and big, with full beards except for the youngest, who was clean-shaven. Their gun rigs looked worn and old, so he didn't figure them for hired guns, so they were probably just cowboys, but there was raw danger in their eyes, as if they'd seen hard times and hadn't survived it well. The two older men carried themselves with surly confidence, but the younger one kept looking to them, unsure and kind of quirky.

"Mind fillin' me in, boys?" Deeks asked with a soft, forced grin. "Kinda in the dark here 'bout who you're talkin' about."

"You Max Gentry?" The scraggly looking one asked, pointing a long barreled pistol at his head. "And remember it ain't polite to lie."

"Name's Deeks," he replied. "Whadda ya want with this Gentry fella?"

"Rancher named Thurston put a big bounty on his head," Ike said easily, holding a rifle level with his belly. "Thought we'd check cabins up this way and now we found ya."

"And you boys are fixin' to get rich," he said calmly, even though his muscles were now in knots.

"That's the idea, mister," he replied.

"Sorry to disappoint ya, but I ain't him," Deeks said without flinching, his voice deep and flat.

Before he could get his arm up, the man with the pistol struck him on the side of the head and he stumbled to his hands and knees. It wasn't hard enough to knock him out, but it was painful when the man pressed the barrel of the gun into the base of his skull.

"Told ya not ta lie," he growled.

"Don't rile Henry, now, or you'll be sorry," Ike said as he came to stand in front of him. "Now, get up."

When he felt the gun pulled back he charged Ike, hitting him just below the knees and taking him to the ground. He grabbed for the rifle, but a sharp kick in the ribs made him scream and lose his grip, and another knocked him sideways, leaving him struggling to breathe. A kick above his right eye left him stunned and bleeding, all his fight now gone. They dragged him across the muddy ground to the corral fence and tied his hands to the top rail, leaving him halfway hanging and close to passing out. His eye blurred with blood as they left him and entered Nap's cabin, the sounds of them ransacking the man's home making him sorry he had involved the old man.

"Looky here, Gus," Ike said as he came out to show Gracie's picture to the younger brother left to guard him. "Ugly old cow, ain't she?"

"Put that back you sonofabitch," Deeks gasped out.

The man strode forward, backhanding him with a fist and blood flowed from his mouth, which he spit angrily at the man.

"That your ugly ol' mama, mister?" Ike laughed, and bent over to grab a handful of his hair. "Wanted poster mentions your long blond hair, mister. Shoulda cut it."

"Nothin' worth nothin' in there," Henry said as he came out of the cabin. "Gus, go bring up the horses. Time to go collect our money."

Deeks knew they wouldn't kill him. Thurston would want him alive, so he closed his eyes and shut his mouth, needing to regain his strength until he got a chance to escape. His arms were aching with the strain of having them tied above his head, his wrists taking his full body weight causing the rough rope to cut into his scarred wrists. He should have been more cautious, and he silently berated himself for being so stupid as to let three men sneak up on him. He felt a chill when he saw the youngest leading a packhorse along with the men's mounts, realizing how painful the trip back was going to be. He heard Sheila nicker as she dropped her head over the fence to nuzzle his mud streaked arms.

"Can we take the mare?" Gus asked.

"We ain't horse thieves, boy," Henry said, slapping him across the cheek. "Now cut 'im loose."

The relief was instant and he slumped to the ground, but that was short lived as the two older men grabbed his arms and dragged him to the side of the waiting packhorse. He struggled when they tried to get him up onto the wooden packsaddle, but Ike slugged him viciously from behind and they wrestled him up and slung him face down across the back of the horse. The pain in his ribs was pure agony, and as hard as he tried he couldn't stifle a groan as they expertly tied him down. He was close to unconsciousness as Henry tied his wrists together and passed the end of the rope under the horse to be tied to his tightly bound knees.

"Don't ya think we should make sure this is Max Gentry?" Gus asked, sounding angry.

"Go ahead and pull his boots off then, little brother," Ike ordered.

Deeks tried to kick the boy, but his older brothers each grabbed one of his legs and held him so Gus could yank his boots and socks off, exposing the barely healed cuts on the soles of his feet.

"Just like the poster said," He heard Henry say. "Them scars proves he's a lyin' bastard."

Deeks hung limply over the horse as the men mounted up and turned to cross the meadow. He found himself saddened that he wouldn't get a chance to see Kenzie again, or hold her close and kiss her, hoping she wouldn't be too mad that he broke his promise and let himself be taken once again. The pain was unbearable as the wooden packsaddle gouged deeply into his ribs, and he slipped into semi-consciousness, his hazy thoughts lingering on Kenzie's soft smile.

He had no idea how far they'd gone, but when the trail steepened as they headed down a gully, he moaned, finding it difficult to breathe, and he heard Ike laugh. The packhorse trotted out onto a rough track making him gasp as a wave of nausea seized him and he coughed up Nap's bitter coffee. He was shivering with chills now and moaning with almost each step of the horse, but a deep familiar growl made him stop and listen. The men must have heard it too, because he heard Ike cock his rifle and they began to mill around looking for the source. The sudden howl of a wolf made Henry's horse shy, and he was struggling to control it when the first shot rang out, dropping the man from his saddle. Ike was beside him when the second shot echoed down the gully, and he raised his head to see the man clutch his stomach, trying to stop the blood soaking his shirt. The rifle slipped from the man's grasp and he toppled off the agitated horse and landed face down in the mud.

"Get up, Ike," Gus screamed, his horse turning in circles as he tried to tell where the gunfire was coming from. "Henry? What do I do?"

Gus still held the lead rope of the packhorse, and the animal was beginning to panic, fighting the boy's hold on him, and stumbling on the uneven ground. Deeks saw a blur of gray fur flashed past and turned his head to watch as the wolf leaped at the chest of the frightened boy, his teeth tearing into his throat as he took him to the ground. The packhorse reared and Deeks blacked out when the horse's front feet landed hard, taking his breath away.

Coming to in a dizzy stupor, he felt a calloused hand on his bare back and heard a soft voice cajoling the nervous horse.

"Nap?"

"I'll have ya off there right soon, kid," he said quietly. "Soon as I hobble this ornery cayuse."

Deeks couldn't stop the tears of relief as he waited, listening to Nap scold the horse and yell at Gray Boy to get away.

"How'd you know?" He whispered.

"Gray Boy smelled 'im. Headed straight on back and I follered," he replied as he began to cut him free. "Saw yore boots in the mud and what they did in the cabin. Your mare was goin' plumb crazy. They was easy ta track from there. Easy ta shoot too. The dumb bastards."

When Nap made his way around to his feet he heard him swear and felt his big hand move gently over his leg as he cut the last of the ropes and eased him off the pack saddle. The sudden movement caused blinding pain and he collapsed in the old man's arms, panting heavily as the man lowered him to the ground. Nap moved to release the hobbles on the packhorse, slapping its rump, and sending the animal tearing wildly down the slope of the hill.

"Good luck ta anyone tryin' ta catch that ol' crowbait," Nap said as he knelt beside him. "You rest a bit, kid, then we'll get you back to the cabin."

"The boy took your picture of Gracie," he whispered.

The old man left him, grumbling something about respect, and when he returned he lifted his shoulders and put a canteen to his lips.

"Was it broken?" He asked.

"Not so much as a crack," he replied and began to gently wipe some of the blood from his face. "Who done that to yore feet?"

"Thurston."

"He send those three?"

"Put a bounty on my head," he replied. "I burned the bastard's house down."

"Knew there was a reason I liked ya," the old man grunted out a laugh as he helped him to his feet.

"Yore too poorly today, but in the mornin' ya hightail it north to those Arapaho friends of yorn," he told him. "And leave that buckskin jacket here. Bounty hunters might be on the lookout for it."

He nodded in agreement as the old man helped him up on his mule, the effort leaving him winded. As he gathered himself, he couldn't help his own curiosity.

"How'd ya know I have friends among the Arapaho?"

"I might look like a crazy ol' man, but I ain't dumb, blind neither," Nap said. "Been in these parts awhile. Fought injuns and know the markin's on that jacket. No white man gets a jacket like that unless he kilt the man wearin' it or was a gift to someone they adopted. Didn't see no bullet holes, so I'm guessin' yore family."

"Yeah. Guess I am."

...

...


	17. Chapter 17

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 17_

...

Callen watched the edge of the rainstorm drift north, leaving only a heavy mist in its wake that blended with the sullen clouds scudding low across the sky. The rain had dampened the white dust that usually coated everything, but Fort Steele remained a bleak outpost, a woe-begotten excuse for a fort that had him in a bad mood even before they got here. The food consisted mostly of beans and beef that was as tough as his boot and tasted, he was convinced, much the same. He was used to very little sleep, but trying to get even a small amount in the same room with twenty snoring soldier boys had done nothing for his mood either. Finding out that Max Gentry or Deeks or whatever he was calling himself now, had probably burned out the biggest landowner in the area had simply added to his irritation.

That kid needed to have his butt kicked for going to Thurston's alone. He admired his bravery and he understood why he did it, but it was still stupid. It had been plain that Thurston was an arrogant bastard the minute he had begun to make demands at the Atwoods, but the man had no proof, and his insistence that it could only have been Gentry might be enough to convince a Federal judge to swear out a warrant, something he didn't want to happen. The kid's sense of what was right had surprised him from the beginning and his willingness to take a risk to foil Thurston's plan for the Mueller's had impressed him. Now the kid had put himself on the wrong side of the law and that presented a problem he wasn't sure how to deal with.

Stepping down from the porch of the telegraph office, he did his best to sidestep the many puddles dotting the rough ground, wondering where the kid might have run to after his nighttime foray. Sam was waiting for him outside Major Harney's office, an irritating grin on his placid face.

"You look more sour faced than normal. Still no reply from Washington?" Sam asked, obviously enjoying poking at Callen's bad mood.

"No, but I got one from Judge Haines," Callen grumbled. "Thurston's in Cheyenne. Went to the judge to plead his case."

"Did he swear out a warrant?" Sam asked, his grin gone.

"Not yet, but he's thinkin' about it," Callen replied. "Told me to send him what we can on Max Gentry. Called him an outlaw."

"Atwoods ain't gonna be happy to hear that," Sam said. "They've taken to that rascal."

"You don't like him much," Callen noted.

"Acts too big for his britches," Sam said with derision, crossing his arms and staring out across the parade ground.

Callen's reply was interrupted when a soldier rode full gallop through the gate and yanked his mount to a stop in front of them and jumped off. Rushing past them into the officers' quarters, he yelled for the Major, and the two marshals leaned against the doorframe to find out what the excitement was all about.

"Did he just say something about a woman?" Sam whispered, taking a tentative step inside the door.

The officers and sergeants crowded into Major Harney's office, growing agitated the more the young soldier talked. When the men came to attention and stepped back, the Major hurried out of his office and right past them, followed by his men.

"What the hell happened?" Callen asked, stopping one of the sergeants.

"The two Mueller brothers are bringin' in a wounded woman," he shared. "Private Fallon says it looks like she was beaten. Also said she was beautiful."

The two marshals shared a quick look and then followed the man out. Freeman was driving the wagon, which moved slowly through the gate of the fort and headed toward the doctor's office over by the sutler's store. A blanket had been erected over the front half of the wagon bed, but Callen could see Branch sitting in the open staring down at whoever lay beneath. Gossip had spread like wildfire and the bored troopers were quick to hurry over, excited and curious since it concerned a woman. Callen pushed through the crowd, but it was Sam who shoved aside the last man blocking their view, only to stop abruptly, causing Callen to stumble into his back.

"MacKenzie?" Sam called her name out softly and then swore, something he hardly ever did.

Both marshals were stunned, staring down at her as she moved restlessly and unknowing under the blankets, her dark hair wild and clinging to the sweat glistening on her bruised face.

"You know this woman, Marshal Callen?" Major Harney asked.

"Yes sir. Name's MacKenzie Blye," he answered. "She's a friend. Helped us stop the men who raided the Mueller's place."

"Where the hell did you find her, Branch?" Callen turned to ask.

"Deeks brung 'er to the ranch," he replied as he got down from the wagon bed.

"What happened to her?" Sam demanded, his voice muted.

"She was tied up and horsewhipped," the old man said, his voice deep and angry.

"Did this Deeks fellow do this to her?" Major Harney demanded gruffly.

"No sir. Edward Thurston did this," Freeman informed him, loud enough for every man to hear.

"The rancher?" The Major looked shocked. "Why in God's name would he do such a thing?"

"Wanted information. When she refused he..." Branch stopped, too angry to continue.

"He horsewhipped the woman..." The major's face turned dark red as he breathed out the words. "Outrageous! A man who would this is beyond contempt."

"Deeks got her outa there," Branch said softly. "Don't know what that devil mighta done to 'er if he hadn't."

Troopers who had crowded around the wagon trying to get a look at her grumbled out dark, hushed curses of disbelief, their anger agitating each other as muted threats passed from man to man. As the two old men slowly pulled the blankets she was resting on toward them, Sam stepped up and shouldered them aside, lifting MacKenzie gently in his arms, stopping instantly when she cried out in pain. The crowd of men went silent, but the murmuring began again when she opened her eyes and struggled briefly until she saw who was holding her.

"Sam?"

"You're safe now, girl," he whispered, as the Major ordered the men to stand aside and let them pass.

He carried her quickly up onto the porch and into the doctor's office, the troopers following close behind until their sergeants shouted for order. Callen and Major Harney stood by Branch, who was obviously upset, but finally looking relieved.

"Hard to believe a man of Thurston's breeding would do something like that to a woman," the Major said, still sounding stunned by the revelation. "Are you certain this Deeks is telling the truth?"

"MacKenzie told me herself," Branch replied, looking indignant at the suggestion. "That good'n 'nough for ya, Major?"

The man finally nodded, his face rigid with anger as he turned and stalked off toward his office, his officers trailing behind.

"Did she say why she was at Thurston's place?" Callen asked.

"Bastard had 'er brung there. Don't know by who," he replied. "She slept mosta the way here. She's feverish, poor thing."

"What about Deeks?" Callen asked.

"Boy's in piss poor shape hisself," Branch replied, but wouldn't look at Callen, making him wonder what he wasn't telling.

"I know what he did, Branch," Callen said in a hushed tone. "Thurston came lookin' for 'im at the Atwoods. Told us he got burned out. He believes Max Gentry did it."

"You gonna arrest 'im?" Branch asked, taking a step back from him. "They'll hang that boy and I cain't go along with that."

"No one saw him do it, but you just told a major in the U.S. Army that Deeks was at Thurston's place," Callen said. "He's in trouble, Branch, and I don't know if I can help him."

"Thurston raided my place. Nearly killed that boy for tryin' ta warn us. Heard tell the Atwoods got hit too, and their two boys were shot, one dead. All Thurston's doin'," Branch rasped out angrily. "Now that high'n mighty bastard horsewhips a young woman and it's Deeks who's in trouble? If you're goin' after that boy ya won't get no help from me or Freeman. Shame on ya, son. Shame on ya."

"It was a stupid thing to do," Callen said, trying to get him to see past his anger. "He shoulda just given me a statement about what the man did to him and to you and the law woulda handled it."

"You go in there and look at that there girl's back and tell me what the law's gonna do about that," he replied harshly, his eyes boring into Callen. "Make that man pay for that sin if ya don't do nothin' else. You ain't no better than he is if ya don't."

The old man walked away, leaving Callen feeling chastised and shaken by his accusation.

"G? She wants to see ya," Sam called out and turned immediately to go back inside.

Callen passed through a group of soldiers who had remained outside, some of them asking if he was going to arrest the man who did it, but he ignored them, causing some to offer to take it out of the man's hide themselves. He glared at them, but he didn't blame them. When he entered the room, MacKenzie was sitting on the edge of a small bed facing him, tightly gripping the bedding she had pulled up to her throat to cover herself while the doctor tended to her back. She whimpered occasionally, but the muscles of her jaw were tight as she endured the pain, perspiration coating her forehead and running down the side of her face. When she looked at him, her eyes were glazed and dull, and he saw her lip quiver as another small cry escaped. He looked up at Sam, whose face was like dark thunder and there was nothing but rage in his eyes as he watched the doctor work. He stepped over to stand beside him and went numb when he saw her back, grabbing onto Sam's arm as white-hot rage exploded in his chest.

"That sonofabitch," he whispered.

"I'm gonna kill 'im," Sam hissed out.

Before Callen could say anything, Sarah Mueller rushed up the steps, the troopers quickly moving out of her way, touching their hats with respect as she hurried into the room. Sitting down on the bed across from MacKenzie, she reached out and took her face in her hands, wiping the beads of sweat from her forehead and brushing back the strands of dark hair that clung there.

"You don't have to be strong now, girl," she said calmly. "You already done that by survivin'. It's okay to cry. These good men won't fault you none."

Her lips began to quiver and tears pooled suddenly in her eyes as she wearily sank into Sarah's arms, crying softly as the doctor covered her back with a cotton sheet and stood.

"You soldiers get on away now," the man's cultured Southern voice belying the anger on his face. "This young lady needs her rest, and she doesn't need the lot of you gawking at her. That goes for you marshals too."

"No," MacKenzie choked out as she raised up and looked back for them. "I need to talk to them. Alone."

"Gentlemen? You have five minutes," the doctor said firmly and stepped outside among the milling soldiers and closed the door.

"Will you stay, ma'am?" She asked Sarah.

"My name's Sarah, dear," she replied and patted her hands. "You call me that and I'll keep these two in line. They look a little fit to be tied right now."

MacKenzie smiled a little at her comment and nodded as they came around in front of her and pulled up a couple of chairs to sit in.

"You want to lay down, hon?" Sarah asked gently.

"No. It hurts less to sit," she replied weakly.

"We'll make him answer for this, MacKenzie," Callen promised, his voice strained and low.

"Not just him. He sent Black Jack Wallace to get me," she said, her dark eyes flashing. "Thurston wanted me to tell 'im where Deeks was. Those two want 'im dead, Callen."

"How'd Deeks find you?" Sam asked.

"Honestly? I don't know. Thurston had me tied to the bedpost in a room upstairs. I heard some men shouting 'fire' and then he and his guards ran outside," she replied, gripping Sarah's hands tightly. "Then Deeks was just there. I was shocked to see 'im. He was havin' trouble stayin' on his feet, but he cut me loose and helped me down the stairs. Then he set fire to the house and we ran."

"He didn't try to kill Thurston?" Callen asked.

"I wanted to, but he said he wanted 'im to know what it felt like to be burned out...to have no place to go," she said softly. "He wouldn't let me do it, Callen. Said it was for another time."

"He was right. Woulda put you in danger," Callen said.

"He got you outa there while they were distracted with the fire," Sam said with a hint of respect.

"Where's he headed now?" Callen asked, and he saw a sudden wariness in her eyes.

"I'm not sayin'," she said with sudden defiance.

"MacKenzie..."

"No Callen," she said loudly. "No. Let him go...please. He coulda left me there, but he didn't...he..."

"Don't think it's in him to have left you, child," Sarah said softly.

"She's right. He wouldn't do that," Sam said quietly, earning a surprised look from Callen.

"Black Jack Wallace is workin' for Thurston," MacKenzie said as she wrapped her arms around herself, shivering slightly. "Paid the bastard to grab me. If he tracks down Deeks they're gonna kill 'im together."

"Ain't there somethin' you marshals can do to protect 'im?" Sarah asked.

"Not sure we can," he replied, looking away from the two women's pleading eyes. "Thurston is tryin' to get a warrant out for his arrest."

"Callen...I was wrong about 'im," MacKenzie whispered, her face softening and her eyes shining with tears. "He's not an outlaw. He's a good man."

"If we get to 'im first, we can lock 'im up. Thurston and Wallace won't be able to get to him in jail," Sam reasoned.

Callen saw the change in her as soon as the words were out of Sam's mouth. Her eyes turned dark and defiant and something closed off between them as she straightened up and stared angrily at both of them.

"That's your solution?" She asked coldly before her voice softened. "It would kill 'im to be locked up."

"Sounds like a lot's changed between you'n Deeks since last we talked," Callen said with a smirk, watching her expression.

"Ain't jail better'n what those two bastards got planned for 'im?" Sam asked softly.

"Then maybe you best be goin' after them two for what they done, 'stead of puttin' a good man behind bars," Sarah said adamantly. "Take another look at this girl's back and then do what's right like that boy did. Make Thurston pay like ya promised 'er."

The two women looked determined to defend Deeks no matter what either one of them said, and he didn't really have the heart to argue with them. Even Sam seemed to have softened his opinion of the kid. So, maybe Sarah Mueller was right. Maybe they should concentrate on bringing Thurston to justice instead of going after the one man who had done the right thing in spite of the odds. He couldn't really fault him for burning Thurston out after what he'd done, especially after seeing what he did to MacKenzie. Served the sonofabitch right.

He could see MacKenzie doing her best not to show how much pain she was in, and the simmering anger he had kept tamped down now flared brightly and threatened his normal self control. He wasn't sure what he would have done had he found her in that house instead of Deeks. He might not have acted as sensibly as Deeks had. He usually kept his temper well in hand, but the woman in front of him was one of the few friends he had and he cared about her. Seeing her bound and whipped as Deeks must have might have sent him past the point where he could control himself. He had given into that kind of irrational anger before and it had sent him on a rampage, one he didn't regret, but that was a constant reminder of the volatile nature he kept hidden behind an outward reserve. Deeks had been under a terrible strain since being tortured and had watched the people who'd help him be attacked and almost killed. His vengeance had not been irrational though. As much as he must have wanted to kill Thurston, and probably still did, he had sought to punish him in a different way, taking away his prized possessions, a ranch and home he had taken great pride in and in the process had diminished him. After listening to the way Thurston addressed the Atwoods, he knew the man would never let that kind of offense pass. His enormous pride wouldn't let him, and his anger wouldn't be controlled, or his response thoughtful. It would be vicious.

"Gentlemen, your time is up," the doctor said as he pushed through the door. "I need to put some stitches into those deeper cuts, and I need to give her something for the pain. She wouldn't take anything until she spoke with you. Please don't make her wait any longer."

Callen nodded and stood, lightly touching the top of MacKenzie's head before he turned to leave. Sam squeezed her shoulder gently and followed him, neither man saying anything as they passed by the soldiers still gathered on the porch outside. Callen could feel Sam practically vibrating he was so enraged, and Callen was holding himself together as best he could, although the need to hit something or someone, and in particular Edward Thurston, was clawing at his insides.

"We should have checked on her before we left Saratoga Springs," Callen murmured tightly. "He took 'er right from under our noses."

"Deeks..." Sam grunted as they stalked side by side across the parade ground.

Callen slowed and then stopped when he said nothing else, forcing Sam to stop as well, the two men looking solemn and anywhere but at each other.

"What about 'im?" Callen asked, staring back at the doctor's office.

"If he hadn't decided to take the law into his own hands..."

"Yeah..." Callen said, his skin crawling at the cruel possibilities. "Maybe he's not the idiot you thought he was."

"Joe Atwood thinks he's an idiot," Sam replied, with a sad, fading grin. "I thought he was a coward."

"Not often we're both wrong," Callen acknowledged.

"Couldn't even walk good, but went anyways," Sam said quietly.

"He's a tough kid," Callen was forced to admit.

"And an angry one," Sam replied.

"You're surprised he didn't kill 'im," Callen said, finally looking at him.

"Ain't you?"

"Maybe he meant to before he found MacKenzie," Callen said thoughtfully.

"He saved her, G," Sam replied. "Took her before that bastard had a chance to do somethin' worse."

"Let's make sure the sonofabitch gets what's comin' to 'im," Callen said firmly. "He seems to think he's important, so let's give 'im the attention he deserves."

"What about Deeks?"

"Not sure we'll ever see 'im again," Callen replied.

"I kinda hope you're right," Sam laughed softly.

"Bet MacKenzie don't."

"Don't think I'll be takin' that bet, partner."

The two men headed for the telegraph office, and were surprised to find Major Harney already there with a couple of his lieutenants. The men's faces were taut with anger and the words they overheard made them realize that they weren't the only men determined to see Thurston punished for what he did. A few of these officers had wives here with them, but most didn't, relying only on letters that came sporadically to connect with their loved ones. These officers had a code of honor, and they had been offended by what MacKenzie had suffered at the hands of Edward Thurston. Decent men didn't do such a thing to a woman and Callen could see the outrage on their faces, and especially in the eyes of the major.

"That man's actions are intolerable, Marshal Callen," Major Harney stated staunchly. "I have reported it to the Territorial Governor in Cheyenne and up the chain of command. I would hope you are about to do the same."

"I am, Major," he replied. "I'll be sending a report to the Attorney General in Washington and will be seeking an arrest warrant for Edward Thurston from the federal judge in Cheyenne."

"If you need assistance in apprehending this perverted scoundrel you have only to ask," Major Harney stated vehemently. "His actions are contemptible, and an affront to the civilized society we are trying to build here in the west."

"We also believe he's responsible for a couple of the raids been happening around here, includin' the one on the Muellers," Sam shared.

"It takes a certain breed of men to tame this rugged land, gentlemen," he replied. "But, we don't need bullies or miscreants like Thurston. No room in my mind for a despicable troublemaker like that."

The officers followed the major out, each one giving Callen a long look as they passed by, their agreement with the man's judgment very apparent.

"Not sure what some of them words meant, but I sure as hell got the jist of it," Sam said.

"Thurston made a mistake, Sam, and it's gonna cost 'im," Callen said. "Not many gonna respect him much or believe 'im when this gets out."

"Looks like the major's gonna make sure it does," Sam replied.

"So am I."

...

George leaned on his elbows, his arms hanging loosely over the fence as he watched the sky. The patchy clouds were slow moving, matching his lethargy, and the chores had been done long ago, silently, with Joe by his side. He had told him to take a ride when his repeated slamming of tools and tack had irritated him just enough to make him snap rudely at his son. None of them had spoken of Deeks since the marshals had left yesterday, the loss still too tender to touch with words. So he solemnly watched the clouds and wondered what he might have said that would have convinced the young man to stay.

Josie was keeping to herself, nursing the loss as if his leaving had somehow been her fault because she had been shot. He had watched her grow attached to the boy almost from the beginning, as she did with all the strays she had taken in over the years. But this boy had filled a deeper need and had had a great impact on her, and he had been worried for her, knowing a man like Deeks was a rover and had been one for a very long time. As much as he had wanted him to stay, he had known too many men whose nature wouldn't allow them to settle. They knew so little about him and he figured he would have kept it that way if he hadn't been in the throes of a fever and given away some of what troubled his soul. Josie saw a son in him and Joe a brother, but he had seen a young man who needed to be both but who had no idea how to be either. He had invited him to be part of their family, but had no illusions that if he had accepted it would be easy. He had offered because he felt the boy needed them more than they needed him. He knew Deeks was skittish around him and he understood. Just like any abused animal, he was afraid to trust, afraid to be disappointed and hurt again. It would have taken time, but he knew his wife and his son would have persevered just as he would have. He was gone now and each of them had to grow used to another loss, this one not as painful as losing Chris, but his leaving had opened old wounds and Deeks was not the kind of man who could easily be forgotten.

A yell from the far side of the pasture broke his reverie and he looked up to see Joe waving his hat madly as he galloped toward him. Reaching down beside him, he hefted his rifle and laid it across his arm as he made his way to the rough track that led to the house. He shaded his eyes and saw a wagon coming slowly behind and he yelled for Josie. He hadn't expected them this soon, but obviously Marshal Callen had given the Muellers their invitation to stay until they could rebuild. When Joe pulled his lathered chestnut stallion to a halt, and leaped from the saddle, his jaw was clinched tightly and his dark eyes were full of anger.

"What is it son?" George hurried to ask, cocking his rifle just in case.

"The Muellers have MacKenzie Blye with 'em," he replied. "Thurston got her. The sonofabitch horsewhipped 'er."

He knew the man was a reprobate, but this was way over the line even for him. It was barbaric and George couldn't quite take in the information. He whispered the news to Josie as the Muellers halted in front of them. Even though he was pleased to see Coot sitting up front on the seat with Freeman, the affect of Thurston's action made for a somber welcome.

"I can walk," MacKenzie said stubbornly as the men gathered around her when she eased off the back end of the wagon.

"Of course you can girl, but forgive the men...they always have a need to do somethin'," Josie said as she and Sarah each took one of her arms and helped her walk slowly into the house, with Coot moving gingerly along behind them.

"She gonna be all right?" George asked as the men stood quietly watching.

"She'll be better now that she's here," Branch said. "Those troopers wouldn't leave her in peace. Most of 'em ain't seen a woman in months."

"How the hell did this happen?" Joe choked out.

"First off, I want ya ta know it was Deeks who found her," Branch said. "Got 'er out 'fore he fired the house."

"You saw 'im?" Joe asked anxiously. "Where is he? Is he at your place?"

"No, son. He's gone," Freeman added solemnly. "Wanted us to take MacKenzie to Fort Steele so the doc could see to 'er. Then he headed out."

"Said a man named Black Jack Wallace was probably on his tail," Branch told them. "Wanted to draw him off so he'd leave you folks be."

"Thurston came here lookin' for 'im," Joe said, moving anxiously as he spoke. "I had that bastard in my sights. Shoulda shot 'im when I had the chance. Now's he's gotta gunslinger after 'im."

"How was he, Branch?" George asked quietly.

"Pretty tuckered out and hurtin'," he replied. "Worried 'bout the girl and you folks."

"Do ya know where he's headed?" George asked hopefully.

"Headed north to the Wind River Reservation," Freeman stated. "Told us he'd been adopted by an Arapaho Chief up there name of Little Shield. Said they'd take 'im in."

"How come you lookin' so worried then?" George asked as the two old ranchers glanced at each other. "Ya think them Indians are a danger to 'im?"

"Got this from one of the scouts at the fort," Branch said as he pulled a rumpled piece a paper from his back pocket. "Said he got it from a cowboy up on Sugar Creek."

"That sonofabitch put a bounty on his head," Joe growled as he ripped the wanted poster from the old man's hand.

"He'll have more'n just one gunslinger after 'im now," George said sadly. "For that kinda money ever down-on-his-luck cowboy'll be after 'im."

"I hafta warn 'im," Joe said, walking quickly to his horse.

"You're two days behind 'im, boy," Freeman said.

"I can't leave 'im out there alone, Papa. Not with a bounty hangin' over 'im," Joe said as his father put a restraining hand on his arm.

"I know son," he said. "Neither can I."

"You comin'?"

"If the Muellers are willin' ta look after things here," he said, turning to gauge the men's reaction.

"He sure as hell belongs in this here family," Branch laughed. "You're all hard headed as a mule and a mite crazy, but I cain't fault ya none. Go on along and don't ya worry. We'll take things in hand here."

"But you gotta tell Josie," Freeman said. "She ain't gonna like it one bit. Best hide the guns once she hears what you two is up to."

That sobered both of them, but he knew Joe would not be stopped. He had only needed an excuse to go after Deeks and now that he knew where to look for him, no one, not even Josie, would be able keep him here. The two boys might as well be brothers. They both had similar traits and personalities, both were tough and confident, both prone to going off half-cocked at the drop of a hat. He wouldn't let him go alone. He'd already lost one son and the thought of Joe going up against Black Jack Wallace and Thurston's hired guns made his blood run cold. Deeks knew how to handle a gun. He knew it the first time he saw him standing easily by his mare with his hand on the butt of his Colt pistol after he brought Joe home. He didn't doubt his ability to go up against Wallace and have a chance of coming out alive, but not Joe. Joe was good with livestock and horses. He'd been in the cavalry, but had seen limited action in a few skirmishes with the Apaches, but never alone, man to man. He was competent with a rifle, but he didn't have the instinct to kill a man in a face-to-face draw down. He hadn't had to fight to survive most of his life like Deeks had, and that made a difference. It didn't mean he wouldn't fight hard or risk his life for Deeks. He would, and that's what scared him. Losing his brother had changed him, made him angry and a little bit reckless. He wasn't just going to find Deeks, he was going to seek revenge, but he probably didn't realized it.

Josie would understand. She had worried over the changes in her remaining son and Deeks had been a godsend, distracting him from some of his anger and giving him someone to care about again. The two men had bonded. They became kindred spirits that day on the grassy plains where they had fought a common enemy. Now Joe was determined to find him and if they had to fight for each other against long odds, they wouldn't do it alone. He wouldn't allow it. He wouldn't lose another member of his family. He would be there to make sure of that.

...

...


	18. Chapter 18

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 18_

...

The sweet smell of cornbread drew him from his restless sleep, his eyes fluttering open in the dusky light. A hint of pine smoke floated above him as he sought out the source of what woke him, the sporadic crackle of burning wood drawing his attention. The hunched form of the old man was silhouetted against the low burning fire, the big gray wolf watching as he lay prone on the floor, his head between his paws. When Deeks eased his sore body up a bit, pushing the pillow up behind his head, the animal raised up to look at him with piercing yellow eyes, its thick tail thumping on the hardened earth.

"'Bout time," Nap said without rising. "Thought me 'n Gray Boy here was gonna hafta eat this all by our lonesome. Got coffee if'n ya want some."

"Thanks."

He slowly pushed himself up until he could swing his legs over the side of the bed, gritting his teeth at the pain that sliced through the dull ache in his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped an arm around his body and waited to catch his breath before trying to stand, and was surprised to feel the wolf lay its head on his knee and whine.

"He's took to ya, right enough," Nap laughed. "I'd give ya a hand up, 'cept if ya cain't stand on yer own, ya ain't gonna make it far on a horse. Not in this here weather."

"I didn't hear it rain," he said as he scratched the ruff of the waiting wolf.

"That's cause it's snowin'," Nap said as he rose and carried a skillet of hot cornbread over to the tiny lopsided table.

"Dammit."

"Don't ya like snow, kid?" Nap asked. "Tain't nothin' better'n coverin' tracks then a good deep dustin' of snow. Now git yerself up and see if ya wanna give it another day afore ya ride out. Don't let this here cornpone git cold now. I set out some honey Sarah give me the last time I was over. Nothin' like it if'n ya got a sweet tooth."

The old man continued to ramble on about Sarah's cooking while he slowly dressed himself and pulled on his socks and boots, only needing a minute to catch his breath. He reached up to finger the cut above his eye, hissing when he found it still tender to the touch, as was the spot above his ear where good old Henry the bounty hunter had hit him. In spite of the lingering soreness from yesterday's ordeal and the snow, he was still determined to head north today.

"I'm startin' without ya, boy," Nap called out, forcing him to try and stand.

Gray Boy started a low whine as he pushed himself up, and then pressed against his leg as he wavered, looking up at him as if checking to see if he was okay. The wolf's large body stabilized his stance, and after a couple of shaky breaths, he limped to the table and collapsed into one of the rickety chairs. Nap was watching him, his eyes sharp and calculating, but he said nothing, just shoved the half full jar of honey toward him and nodded at the cornbread.

It had been long while since he'd had honey and the sweetness of it turned his mind to Kenzie. He recalled the first moment he'd seen her poring over the glass jars filled with candies at the general store in Saratoga Springs, her shiny, long black hair tied loosely at her neck and cascading down her back. He'd been stunned speechless when she'd turned to see who had come in. She was a real beauty, exotic, with oddly marked eyes. That was offset by her tough, kind of prickly demeanor. She was incredibly serious and completely unafraid, pulling a knife on Jim Hedges without a moment's hesitation. He'd never seen anything like it or met anyone like her ever. She hadn't liked him in the beginning and he smiled softly at his memory of her attempt to hit him. She'd gotten ornery after that and he had seen no future in bothering with her. That was before he was hurt, before she'd argued with him, badgering him into taking some whiskey for the pain. Her stubbornness had made him laugh, but it was her unexpected kindness that had touched him. She was something for sure, but he'd known that from the beginning. How things had changed between them still surprised him. Although they had left each other with harsh words after she had allowed him to touch her, he had never been able to get her out of his mind.

The fear that had pierced him when he saw who Thurston had tied up and whipped had almost been his undoing. The rage he'd experienced was heart stopping, stealing his breath away and almost his common sense. It was only his concern for her that had kept him focused. He was still surprised he hadn't walked down the stairs and shot the man where he stood, her vulnerability at that moment making him change his mind. She needed him and he wanted desperately to protect her and comfort her as she had comforted him as he recovered. He wasn't sure if he'd ever see her again, but it was the one thing he longed for, wanting to stay alive in hope that they would meet again.

"Yer fixin' ta go, ain't ya?" The old man said, scratching at his bearded chin, pulling him away from his musings.

He nodded as he finished off his second piece of cornbread, licking the honey from his fingers as he watched for his reaction.

"Well, I reckon I best go along," Nap said. "Know a trail that most folks don't. Leads to a good spot ta cross the Bighorn River. Trail's a rough one, but don't 'speck the gol darn men chasin' ya will know of it."

"You don't have to do that," he quickly replied. "Just draw me out a rough map and I'll find my way. This ain't your fight."

"Boy, I kilt two men yesterdy," he said evenly. "Didn't hafta do that neither, but me and Gray Boy took a shine to ya, so we took it personal when them three hauled ya outa here. Be a waste if'n ya got yerself kilt after that."

He couldn't argue with that, knowing exactly what the old man and his wolf had saved him from, so he wouldn't deny him. Somehow that didn't keep him from feeling a touch of guilt for involving him, unsure why the old man even cared.

"Them fellers trackin' ya be lookin' for one rider," Nap reasoned. "Two might just throw 'em off. And, Gray Boy'll smell 'em comin'. Be downright loco ta turn that down."

"You're right," he replied as he held a chunk of cornbread out to the hungry looking animal.

"Ya tryin' ta spoil my big, bad wolf?" Nap laughed, as the imposing animal licked greedily at the honey coating his fingers.

"Think you already done that," Deeks said, smiling for the first time that morning. "How'd you get 'im?"

"Found his mama dead in a trap," he replied. "Little bit of a fella. Stood 'is ground 'n growled at me. Kinda liked that. Bit me when I hefted him up. Jist skin 'n bones. Figured he'd been there a spell. Brung 'im back, but he didn't cotton to me till I held out a finger with honey on it. Started followin' me round the place after that."

"Found a dog once when I was a kid. Scraggly little stray. Smelled like shit," he offered, huffing out a laugh. "Stuck around after I gave 'im a piece of bacon. Hid 'im till my daddy found out. Run 'im off after a couple of weeks. Gotta a good lickin' for that, but it was worth it." he said sadly. "Daddy didn't hold with dogs. Said they was no good to anybody."

"Sounds a bit hard hearted," Nap commented as he started clearing the table.

Deeks said nothing in reply, running his hand over the head of the wolf as he pressed against his leg. He shook the long ago memories from his head and pushed himself to his feet.

"Best see to my horse," he said.

"Hold on, kid," Nap said. "Wind's whippin' up a blizzard out there. Got a coat for ya."

He was stunned when the old man pulled a dark blue, thick wool overcoat from a peg in the corner.

"My boy traded for it when he was up in the Dakota Territory," the old man said softly as he ran his hand down the sleeve.

"I can't take your son's coat," Deeks said quickly, embarrassed by the generous offering. "I might not get back this way to return it."

"Don't need it back, kid," he grumbled, shoving the coat into his hands. "Now put the dang thing on and see to yer horse whilst I gather us up some grub."

He hadn't meant to insult the old man, but that's how he'd taken his attempted refusal and he didn't know what to say. Staring at the worn coat, he saw that the collar was frayed and that it was missing a couple of buttons, but it was heavy and would keep his butt warm on the ride north. Putting it on, he murmured a soft thank you and turned toward the door.

"Ya remind me of my boy," Nap said quietly. "Tall and kinda gangly lookin'. Had yeller hair too. Longer 'n yore's even. Tied it in a horsetail down 'is back. He was a good boy. You are too. Now go on with ya."

The man's words touched him and he paused, uncertain how to respond until he realized there was nothing he needed to say. Pulling open the door, he let in a swirl of snow and turned back to look at the old man.

"It's ass freezin' weather out there," he said with a smile. "My luck sure is shit."

"Trouble does seem ta find ya," Nap cackled.

"You can still change your mind," he offered.

"I like snow."

"Knew you were a crazy old man," Deeks laughed and shoved his hat down low and trudged out through the drifts and blowing snow, pulling the heavy wool coat tightly around him.

...

They broke from the tree line, walking their tired animals to the edge of a soaring overlook, the far distant plains invisible behind the heavy snowfall and large flakes of snow whipping up the side of the mountain. Sounds were muted and dull in his ears, even Gray Boy's howl was softened by the heavy snowfall and deep drifts that clogged the ravines. When they'd first started out, Nap had regaled him with stories about hunting and scouting during the Indian wars, but that had been hours ago, and now they were both too exhausted to talk. Sheila hung her head and snorted into the snow gathered around her feet making Deeks aware that she wasn't pleased. Once when he was in the Bitterroot Mountains she had stubbornly refused to come out of her stall during a storm, so he had been surprised when she'd eagerly trotted out behind Nap's mule this morning. Her enthusiasm hadn't lasted long, and neither had his as the wind turned bitterly cold.

"We foller this here cliff line a ways, then work our way down Badwater Creek." Nap said, his words muffled by the wool scarf that almost obscured his face. "Old trapper called Waddy built hisself a cabin there. He'll let us rest a spell. Get warm."

"How long?" Deeks asked, blowing on his nearly frozen fingers.

"Couple hours maybe," he murmured as he turned his mule to follow the edge of the cliff. "Best get movin' afor this here blizzard gets any worse."

They wound along a narrow trail barely visible in the snow, the wind cutting down inside the collar of his jacket, chilling him deeply and making him shiver which sent waves of pain through his ribcage. He lost track of time as the world around him turned white, riding hunched over his mare's mane now matted with snow, trying to conserve some measure of heat. A pine limb cracked above him, dumping a pile of snow in front of Sheila, spooking her into a sideways trot, and forcing him to yank her roughly back under control as she neared the edge of the drop off. He couldn't see Nap and his mule anymore, but Gray Boy was constantly circling back, so he waited till the wolf appeared to lead him on the right path. The wolf looked like a hoary ghost as he emerged out of the blowing snow, but Deeks smiled as the animal stopped when he saw him and turned back, somehow knowing he would follow.

The sharp crack of a rifle cut through the dense air, shocking him from his stupor, and he reined his mare toward the cover of the trees. Nap had done the same and they almost ran into each other in the dwindling visibility, nodding to one another as he listened intently for the echo of another rifle shot.

"Don't think they's shootin' at us," Nap said as he hauled out his long rifle.

"Your friend Waddy maybe?" Deeks questioned.

"Ain't nobody huntin' in this," he grunted. "Don't sound like his rifle neither."

A volley of rifle fire thundered up from below and Deeks urged Sheila to move.

"Sounds like your friend Waddy might need a little help," he said as he kicked her into a slow lope.

Nap passed him, leading the way down a treacherous slope along a cascading creek edged with ice. The mule had no trouble navigating the rough ground, but Sheila stumbled a few times as they followed the tumbling creek as swiftly as they could. They were forced to cross the water a couple of times as wind whipped willows lashed the animals' flanks, one branch catching Deeks across the cheek, leaving him with a stinging welt that had him cussing out loud. Just as the track began to steepen, they veered off into a small meadow, coming up behind a dilapidated cabin with a fallen down shed attached. Deeks leaped off his mare and quickly slid his rifle free, following Nap as he stooped under a couple of fallen logs that had once held up the roof of the shed. The rifle fire was sporadic now and he wasn't sure if the men firing on the cabin had even seen them in the blizzard. The men weren't hard to pick out, their dark clothing in sharp contrast to the dull white snow that blanketed the meadow and sagebrush. Deeks counted seven that he could see, but guessed there might be more.

"Give it up, old man," one of the attackers shouted. "If he's in there, just go. Take the woman and them kids and get out. None of ya need to die for a sonofabitch like Gentry."

Deeks sucked in a breath, holding it as his anger crawled out along with the remains of Max Gentry. He ignored Nap's grip on his arm and sighted his rifle and fired, feeling nothing as the man jerked backwards, his hat flying off when he hit the snow bank. The rest of the men unleashed a volley of fire that splintered the wood around them, and had Nap cussing at him, but he still felt nothing but cold hard anger. He scrambled in behind a huge pine log and took aim at one of the dark shapes hunched behind a broken wagon and fired again. He saw the man's rifle slide harmlessly away in the snow, so he turned his attention to the man next in line, firing a few shots before he heard the man cry out.

"One's a runnin'," Nap said as he followed the man's progress with his long rife, shooting him down just as he reached the horses.

"Don't know who ya are, but there's more of us than you can handle," another man shouted out as the firing stopped.

"We ain't afeared of ya," Nap shouted. "If'n yer comin', quit yer jawin' and come on."

Deeks smiled at that, and settled deeper into his protected spot and drew a bead on a man sneaking along behind a low mound of snow. He realized he recognized the man's bandana the second he fired, dropping the man in the snow, his blood splattering across the whiteness. His name was Maguire and he had ridden with the man for a day when he worked for Thurston, taking a small herd of horses to a neighboring ranch. He'd liked him. He'd told good stories and laughed heartily at them when he finished. Now he had taken the man's life and his hands began to tremble. A low whine cut through his momentary weariness and he turned to see Gray Boy staring at him before he turned and growled and suddenly burst into a determined dash toward the creek. Two men rose up and fired at the charging animal and Deeks screamed as the big wolf yelped and went down.

"You fuckin' bastards," he shouted, enraged as he stood up and stalked toward them firing repeatedly, oblivious to the danger.

One man's body was blown into the roiling creek but the other managed a couple of shots that went wide before Deek's bullet hit him in the head. He stopped and then dropped to his knees beside the big wolf, his hands shaking with emotion as he touched his heaving side, afraid when he saw how much blood there was.

"You crazy wolf," he whispered as his eyes filled with tears. "Why'd ya go and do that?"

Gray Boy whimpered, fixing him with yellow eyes and he wiped roughly at his tears and gathered the big animal in his arms and carried him back toward the cabin while bullets kicked up the snow around him.

"They shot him, Nap," he said softly as he laid the wolf in a pile of hay, unsure what to do.

"I'll see to him, boy," the old man replied softly. "You keep fightin'. I kilt one, but might still be men out there trying ta kill us."

From then on he fired without thinking, reloading and firing again until there was no more return fire. His anger simmered deeply in his chest as he scanned the meadow, watching and listening intently for any men still out there. Sheila whinnied loudly and was answered by one of horses beyond the meadow and Deeks turned toward the sound and saw a man trying to mount the animal. He aimed for his legs and pulled the trigger, gratified when the man went down in a heap, his horse yanking the reins free and trotting away. Deeks waited for any return fire, but heard none and could see no others, so he rose slowly and stepped out from under the fallen roof and moved to the edge of the meadow.

"What the hell ya doin' kid?" Nap asked roughly.

"Think we got 'em all," he said, but still held his rifle at the ready. "Just wounded the last one. Cover me, Nap. I'm gonna go get the sonofabitch."

He walked tentatively out into the meadow, noticing for the first time that it had stopped snowing. The wind still whipped up the snow around him, but he could now easily see the man he had wounded as he lay cursing and holding his bleeding leg. The man saw him coming and fumbled at his holster, trying to drag his pistol free.

"Wouldn't do that mister," Deeks said sullenly, and fired a shot into the ground next to him.

"Don't kill me...please..." the man choked out.

"If I wanted to kill ya, you'd be dead," Deeks said as he stopped in front of him.

"Whadda ya want?" The man's eyes hardened as he gripped his leg.

"You work for Thurston?" He asked.

"No."

"Who then?" He cocked the rifle and sighted it and the man raised his hands, which were shaking and coated in blood.

"Worked the Cassidy spread last couple of months," he mumbled nervously. "Fella named Wallace rode in yesterday and offered us each a twenty dollar gold piece ta hunt for a man named Max Gentry. Said we'd get more if we found 'im."

"Where is he?" Deeks asked, suddenly feeling vulnerable as he quickly checked his surroundings.

"Never found 'im."

"I mean Black Jack Wallace," he snapped angrily.

"Not here. Too busy down the mountain burning out the Hawkins' place. Never signed on for that," the man said solemnly. "He beat on Mr. Hawkins till he told 'im where he sent his wife and girls. Don't know why he cared. When he heard about this place he sent us up to see if Gentry might be hold up here. Told us to take 'im alive. Hope the lady and little girls is okay. Never meant them no harm."

"No harm? You sayin' ya didn't lay out here firin' bullets into that cabin?" He yelled, finally losing his temper with the man. "With a woman and her kids inside? For all you know they're dead. So why shouldn't I just put ya down like the damn rabid dog ya are?"

"Please mister," he whined, his face a mask of pain and abject fear.

"For a twenty dollar gold piece," he said in cold disgust. "Was it worth it?"

"No sir," the man whispered.

Deeks reached down and picked up the man's rifle and then took his pistol and threw it as far as he could. He stared at the man and then turned around and left him there, needing to see what was waiting inside that cabin.

"You can't just leave me here," the man shouted. "I'm bleedin'."

Deeks said nothing, afraid that if the man spoke another word he would turn and shoot the bastard. What he had done to Thurston had brought down nothing but pain and suffering on all these people and he was finding that hard to deal with. Men he had done nothing to were willing to hunt him down for a twenty dollar gold piece. His friends were being attacked and he had put a kind old lonely man in danger and got his one companion shot just because of what he'd done. He wouldn't ask more of him, especially if Gray Boy died.

"How come ya didn't kill 'im?" Nap asked from an open doorway.

"Been enough killin' because of me," he growled.

"They brung it on themselves, kid," he replied. "Old Waddy's dead and one of the youngen's was wounded. Don't have no sympathy for those we kilt today. Neither should you."

The inside of the cabin smelled of gun smoke and had been shredded by the bullets that had been fired into it, the windows shattered and the floor bloody where the old trapper lay dead. The soft crying of a child shook him and he looked down into the ashen face of the woman trying to comfort her. Tears streaked the woman's pale cheeks, but there was only harsh anger in her eyes when she looked at him. An older child stood stoically by her mother, her hand still tightly gripping the barrel of a rifle, her eyes empty. He had no idea what to say to them.

"Are they all dead?" The woman asked.

"No ma'am. Left one alive," he responded softly.

She brushed the fair hair from her little daughter's face and kissed her gently on the forehead as the child sniffled back her tears. After tightening the bandage on the girl's arm, she stood and looked at her older daughter, who hadn't moved since he'd walked in.

"Olivia. Give me the gun," Mrs. Hawkins said.

When the girl didn't respond, she gently pried her fingers off and took it, cocking it before turning toward the door.

"Ma'am?" Deeks stepped in front of her, reading her intentions by the coldness of her voice. "Don't do this, ma'am."

"Move, mister," she said, raising her chin and staring at him. "I got every right. That's my little girl. She's seven. Her name's Lizzy. Those bastards gave no thought for her or Olivia, so explain to me why I should give a kind thought for that man out there?"

"Then give one for yourself, ma'am," he said, putting a hand on the rifle. "He ain't worth the pain it'll cause you if ya kill 'im."

"They burned down our home," she said as the tears started. "My girls saw the smoke from the ridge. I have to live with the pain of seeing what that did to them."

"You're tough, ma'am, and so are they," he replied. "You'll survive and you'll rebuild, but if ya do this, it'll be cold blooded murder, ma'am. He's unarmed. He's wounded and ain't nobody gonna help him."

"Why do you care? Do you know him?" She asked.

"No ma'am, but I know the man who burned you out," he replied. "Did your husband know he was comin'?"

"One of our outriders warned us," she said softly as she let Deeks take the rifle from her. "My husband is a stubborn man, mister. He woulda shot first before he let them get too close. Sent us up here before they got there, so I know he was afraid for us. There's been talk about what he does to women. Last few days those men been on a rampage. Killing, burning, and asking about a man named Max Gentry. They put a bounty on his head. Don't know what he did, but if he's that man's enemy, then I'm on his side."

"Best you find another place to hold up, ma'am," Deeks told her. "If Black Jack Wallace comes lookin' for his men, you don't wanna be here."

"What's your name?" She asked.

"Deeks."

"Thank you, Mr. Deeks," she said.

She turned back to her daughters then, gathering the little one into her arms and sat down to rock her. The older girl remained unmoving, her dark eyes still wide with shock, and it hurt Deeks to see her that way. He knelt down in front of her, noticing the streak of blood on her dirty cheek, one hand still clutching a bloody rag. He gently took it from her hand and tossed it aside, thinking it was probably her sister's blood that soaked it.

"Hey Olivia. My name's Deeks," he said, smiling softly. "I'm gonna need your help with Gray Boy. You ever seen a wolf before? This one's kind of a scaredy wolf. He's afraid of thunder and he loves honey. A bad man shot 'im and I want to fix 'im. Will you help me do that?"

The girl blinked slowly as if just waking, her eyes bright with pooling tears, and she nodded when she finally looked at him. He stood up and took her hand, leading her out to the shed where Nap was tending to Gray Boy.

"Olivia wants to help," Deeks said, afraid to ask how the big animal was.

"Bullet broke his shoulder," Nap said. "He's hurtin' pretty bad."

Olivia let go of Deeks' hand and picked up an empty feed sack, gently covering the wounded wolf before she sat down in the hay and began slowly petting his head. He whimpered and closed his eyes, panting from the pain and the little girl looked up at Nap as tears streaked her face.

"Is he gonna die?" She asked.

"Hope not. I'd miss 'im real bad," Nap said as he tore up another feed sack and began to wrap the animal's wound.

"Know a safe place these folks can stay?" Deeks asked.

"Thought this was till them varmints showed up," Nap grumbled. "Man named Hofstetter got a small outfit down the creek and north a here. He might be willin' ta take in the Hawkins. Ranch house is tucked up on a plateau. Be a tough place ta take if that Wallace feller has I mind ta try."

"Mr. Hofstetter's kinda grumpy," Olivia said quietly.

"You folks know 'im?" Deeks asked.

"Went with my Pa once," she said. "He has pretty horses."

"He might be willin' to let us stay," Mrs. Hawkins said from the doorway. "He seemed to respect my husband whenever he came by."

"I'll see ya get there safe, ma'am," Deeks said. "Best we get goin' then. I'll carry the little girl if it don't bother ya. Figures to be a rough ride."

"I'll be staying, kid," Nap said. "Gray Boy needs tendin' and I cain't leave 'im."

Deeks breath caught in his throat, stunned that this was the end of the road for him and Nap. The old man had been good to him and without him and his wolf he would probably be in Thurston's hands right now. He was having trouble saying goodbye and it appeared Nap was having the same. Neither man looked at the other, seeming embarrassed by their unfamiliar emotions. Mrs. Hawkins must have understood, touching Olivia and motioning for her to follow her back into the house.

"Dontcha go 'n get yourself kilt now, ya hear?" Nap said roughly, patting him tentatively on the chest. "That won't set well with me if'n I hear about it."

"I'll do my best, Nap," he replied. "You take care of yourself."

"Always do, boy. I'm a tough ol' codger."

Deeks reached down to run his hand through Grey Boy's thick fur, getting a soft whine from the big wolf. He hadn't meant to get attached to either of them, but now that he was leaving them behind, he found that he had.

"Thanks for everything, Nap."

"It was good knowin' ya, kid. You go on back 'n find that purty girl ya told me about," he said with his signature cackle. "Make a passel a kids together. A man needs a family, boy. Bein' alone is jist too damn lonely."

He felt his eyes water as the man spoke and he laughed, trying to cover his embarrassment, but the old man just squeezed his arm and waved him away, swiping at his eyes as he turned back to Gray Boy.

"We're ready," Mrs. Hawkins said from behind him.

He was grateful to have something to do so he didn't have to dwell on leaving the old man and the big wolf behind. He made sure the horses were properly saddled and went back inside to grab some blankets, worrying about the little wounded girl. She looked feverish and he quickly wrapped her up to cut the chilling wind. Nap handed her up to him after he mounted Sheila and she stared at him with big brown eyes, making him angry all over again at how close she had come to being killed. She pulled her knees up and snuggled against his chest, and it felt as if his heart missed a beat.

"I'm Lizzy," she whispered.

"I'm Deeks," he said in a hushed voice. "This is Sheila."

"Hi Sheila."

After that she yawned and tucked her head down, fiddling with her bandage under the blanket and he looked up to see Mrs. Hawkins smiling at him. Nap gave him some directions and laid a callused hand on his leg, then stepped back and gave Sheila a hard slap on the rump, sending them down the trail. He looked back before he turned down along the creek and the old man waved his hat in the air as a final farewell.

"Dammit," he whispered, missing the old man already.

"You said a bad word," Lizzy murmured.

"Sorry."

"It's okay. Papa says 'em all the time."

He laughed softly and pulled her close as the trail steepened, taking it slow as the creek meandered and snaked down the mountain. He kept alert, scanning the land on either side of the creek whenever there was a break in the heavy growth along the way. Lizzy squirmed occasionally, whimpering if her arm was jostled, but she only clung to him tighter when the trail got rough, and it moved something deep inside of him that he'd never experienced. He'd had no dealings with children and felt shy around these little girls, but he remembered what it felt like to be afraid and he wanted to ease that fear if he could.

It was getting late by the time the trail leveled out and they crossed the creek and headed north along the base of a cliff banked with snow, a grove of alder trees blocking his view of the plains. He let Mrs. Hawkins take the lead since she was familiar with the trail and Olivia smiled kindly at him when she went by. The trail was fairly level here and he could feel Lizzy relax her grip on his shirt. Up ahead was a narrow pass between two rocky outcroppings and Mrs. Hawkins and Olivia disappeared from view as they cut through it. Sheila's ears suddenly pricked and she snorted, raising her head and putting him on guard. The little girl must have sensed it too, her tiny hands grabbing the front of his shirt again. He swept his coat back behind his holster and kicked Sheila forward, worried for the two ahead of him. When he rounded the edge of the rock face men on horses were suddenly upon him, cutting out from between the grey trunks of the alders, bumping into Sheila and causing her to squeal and rear slightly as she was pushed against the cliff. There were others ahead of him, surrounding Mrs. Hawkins and Olivia and he roared in anger, struggling to reach his gun and control his agitated horse while Lizzy screamed and threw her arms around his neck. As Sheila spun in a circle, men on foot grappled for him, trying to drag him from the saddle and he cursed them as his gun was torn from his hand. Two men dragged the little girl from his arms and he heard Mrs. Hawkins shout her name, making him fight harder, but there were too many and they finally pulled him to the ground. He came up fighting, charging the man holding Lizzy who was crying for her mother, her tears streaking through the dirt on her face. Three men stepped between them, grabbing him and shoving him into the face of the rough cliff, forcibly holding him there as he struggled. He finally paused when a large, heavily bearded man stepped in front of him and pointed a rifle at his chest.

"Stop fightin' or I'll club you to the ground," he said gruffly.

"Leave 'em be and I'll go peaceful," he choked out.

The man looked a bit confused and looked back at Mrs. Hawkins who now had Lizzy in her arms, trying to calm her down. Olivia pushed in front of the man with the rifle and shouted at him.

"Don't you hurt him," she demanded loudly. "He saved us Mr. Hofstetter. Please. He's our friend."

She turned and started pushing at the men holding him and they began smiling at the determined girl as they let him go and stepped away.

"Did they hurt you Deeks?" She asked, her face scrunched in worry.

"No, sweetie," he said, panting from the struggle.

"I told you he was grumpy," she scolded.

"Yes you did, sweetheart," he laughed. "Yes you did."

...

...


	19. Chapter 19

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 19_

...

The day's light turned somber and dark and the snow began to fall heavily, causing Deeks to turn up the collar of his coat to try and find some protection from the icy chill. He was weary, drained completely, and feeling as if every muscle in his body was crying out for relief. His head hurt, his mind fuzzy and he found it hard to keep his eyes open as he trailed behind Mr. Hofstetter, trying to make out what he was telling Mrs. Hawkins. Lizzy was riding with her now, but Olivia rode along beside him, dwarfed by a heavy coat one of the men had wrapped her in. The men were strewn out before and behind them, their rifles constantly at the ready and he was grateful for that. He'd tried to talk to one of them, but he didn't speak English, responding in a guttural tongue he assumed was German. Most of the men spoke the same language and acted quite deferential to Mr. Hofstetter, who appeared to issue orders easily, his voice deep and commanding. He was a large man, and his beard looked to be blond, but it was difficult to tell since it was coated in frost. He wore a heavy rust colored duster and a gray wool scarf, both looking as if they were costly. The man had been quite gentle with Mrs. Hawkins and had charmed the girls, but there was a steely look in his eye that told him not to judge the man by that kindness.

When the men behind him urged their horses past, he could hear excitement in their voices even though he couldn't understand what they were saying. The trail was steeper here and as they came around the lee of a hill he saw a large log house with lanterns beckoning in the darkness and he groaned with relief. Passing onto a wide plateau that was completely fenced, he could make out a large barn and a separate stable on the far side, all tucked close to the base of a ridge that reared up darkly behind them. The gate ahead of them was heavily guarded, the men saluting as Mr. Hofstetter trotted by, shouting orders in German that were instantly obeyed.

"He has dogs," Olivia said, smiling shyly as he slid from his saddle to help her down.

"Hope they don't bite," he said to her, grimacing in mock fear.

"You need not be afraid Mr. Deeks. They are well trained and only attack at my command," Hofstetter said with no hint of a smile before bending down to Olivia. "Why don't you go ask Anna to warm some milk for you and your sister."

The two men watched her run up the steps and follow her mother into the house. As Deeks turned to lead Sheila toward the stable, Hofstetter called to a young boy and he ran over and took the reins.

"He will see she is fed and watered," the man said.

"Whadda ya want to ask me?" Deeks said, too tired to dance around the questions in the man's eyes.

"The men you killed—did they ride for Ed Thurston?" He asked bluntly, his eyes intensely focused on him.

"You know Thurston?" Deeks asked, coming fully alert and taking a step back, his hand on the butt of his gun.

"We have had dealings," he replied warily. "You have too, by the way you are acting."

"You can say that," he replied. "You a friend of his?"

"We've done business," Hofstetter said coldly. "But I never take my eyes off him when I do. Now, were they his men or not?"

"His money, but his new foreman, Black Jack Wallace hired 'em," Deeks replied.

"That man has lost his mind," the big rancher said as he yanked his hat off and slammed it against his leg. "I have never trusted him, but to do this to a good man like Hawkins..."

"Ain't the first ranch he had burned out," Deeks told him. "Shot up the Mueller place down on Beaver Creek. Wounded one of the brothers and burned their house to the ground. Sent men to attack the sons of a rancher named Atwood. Killed the oldest. Wounded his wife when he attacked his ranch. He's a sonofabitch."

"He wants all of it," Hofstetter said, his voice low with disgust.

"Whadda ya mean?"

"He wants all the open range for himself," the man replied. "He's been trying to buy out the small holders..."

"And if they won't sell, he tries to run 'em off," Deeks finished. "That why ya got all the guards? He want your place too?"

"Made me an offer a while back," he said.

"And you said no."

"I always knew he was arrogant and now I believe he is insane," he said softly. "We found Hawkins' body hanging in the barn. I don't know how to tell his family."

Deeks could do nothing but stare at the man, his mouth suddenly dry, and the last vestige of energy ebbed from his limbs and he felt as if he might fly away on the blustering wind. He had no advice for the rancher, simply needing to sit down before he collapsed, and infinitely saddened for the little girls and their brave mother whose lives had been forever changed.

"Come inside," the rancher said kindly. "I think we both could use a glass of brandy."

Black Jack Wallace had done this. Whether he was doing it on Thurston's orders he had no idea, but it didn't really matter. The man had never needed an excuse to be violent. Thurston had bigger plans, and had sent Wallace to carry them out. His own capture was just a part of it all, but he couldn't help but blame himself for setting off this rampage. He should have simply left, but instead he had sought vengeance and had sparked a fire buried deep within a soulless man.

Trudging solemnly up the few steps, he followed Hofstetter into his rustic log house, trying to make sense of a senseless act by a man with no care for the lives of the innocent. Two vicious men had come together and threatened the peace of all those who got in their way, and now he had to look into the eyes of a woman and two little girls who had been caught in their path of destruction. He was exhausted by pain and by the killing, but so very angry that he felt himself tremble.

He drank the brandy offered, his mind as numb as his body, sadly listening to Mrs. Hawkins break down as she gathered her confused girls in her arms. He couldn't look at them, couldn't comfort them, and couldn't stay there and watch them mourn. He mumbled his sorrow unnoticed and then turned and walked back out into the storm, trying desperately to control the rage that threatened to overpower him. Stumbling into the stable, he dragged his hat off as he sought out Sheila's stall, needing her familiar presence and strength, needing to forget even though he knew he wouldn't. His mind was chaos, his body weakened by fatigue and lingering pain and he slumped down next to her stall and drew his knees to his chest, letting out a long ragged breath as his head dropped to his chest. He sat there dazed, time crawling by without the blessing of sleep, but a snort from his mare roused him.

"How do you know these men?" Hofstetter asked, causing him to jerk his head up and pull his pistol without thinking.

"You are a gunslinger, yes? And very fast," The big man held his arms wide as he moved inside. "I have seen the wanted poster. You are the man they hunt for. Max Gentry."

Deeks heard the hammers of guns pulled back in the darkness and he silently cursed his lack of vigilance.

"Put your weapon on the ground and push it away or my men will shoot you," the rancher ordered.

"You never trusted me, did ya?" Deeks said softly as he wearily did as he was told.

"I am a cautious man, Mr. Gentry," he responded. "But I am not going to hand you over to those men. Mrs. Hawkins told me what you did. You saved those girls whether you meant to are not, but I saw how you fought for the little one and now I wonder what kind of man you really are."

"I'll leave in the morning if ya let me," he said, staring down at the ground between his feet. "Could use a night's sleep first."

"Tell me why they hunt you."

"You German?" Deeks asked, wanting to delay that story.

"Austrian."

"Military too, I'm thinkin'," he said as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the railing of the stall. "Your men are well trained."

"Some came here with me," he replied. "I was their commanding officer."

"When was that?"

"You had your civil war, we had ours," he replied, his accent growing thicker as he spoke. "I lost my stomach for it when my family was slaughtered. Some of my men came to this country with me and over the years their relatives followed."

"Discovered there were bastards here too, yeah?" Deeks huffed out a bitter laugh.

"There are always arrogant men wanting more than they need," he replied as he lit a small lantern, revealing three men with their guns still pointed at him.

"You gonna order them to shoot me?" Deeks asked. "Cause if ya are, just get it over with. I'm tired."

"You have run far."

"Didn't run," he said simply. "Just needed to draw 'em away so they didn't hurt some people I care about."

"Your family?" Hofstetter asked as he motioned for his men to lower their guns.

"Not really. But they were kind to me and I didn't want them hurt because of me," he replied.

"Those two men want you for a reason," Hofstetter said. "What did you do?"

"You're a stubborn sonofabitch," Deeks murmured, growing irritated with his questions. "What the hell do you care? I'll be gone by mornin'."

"I am a curious man," he replied. "And I obey the law of the land. If you have broken the law, I will not hesitate to turn you over to the authorities."

"Well ain't that just dandy. You think Thurston wants me turned over to the law? He don't give a shit about the law. He makes his own," He barked out angrily. "Why doncha saddle up your damn little army and go take Black Jack Wallace? Ask him by whose authority he hung your neighbor."

Deeks struggled to his feet, grabbing and holding onto the rail until he could be sure he wouldn't fall and embarrass himself. He was surprised to feel the man's firm hand on his arm, holding him steady, and he turned to stare at him.

"We have all committed crimes while at war, Mr. Gentry. They are simply sanctioned crimes," he confessed. "And this is a war. Now tell me what you did that would cause him to put a bounty on your head."

Sheila thrust her head between them and he reached up and tangled his fingers in her mane and laid his cheek against her warm neck. He wasn't sure why, but he told the man everything, starting at the beginning. He spoke with no inflection and by the end he was tiring badly, the residue of pain streaking up from his feet, that from his ribs stealing his breath. He worried he might collapse, but stood his ground, determined not to do that in front of this man. When he finished his story he pushed away from his mare and looked over at the man, who simply nodded, his jaw clinched, and his eyes shadowed with outrage, until finally softening into understanding.

"I cannot let you stay," he said. "But I will provide you with provisions and replenish your ammunition and have a man show you a hidden trail to the Bighorn River. From there you will be on your own. Tonight you can sleep here. I will send a man out with food and some beer. It's better for you than the water. I won't see you again and will give your regards to Mrs. Hawkins and her girls."

"That's kind of you," he replied without energy. "Will ya take care of 'em?"

"Of course. They are our neighbors," he replied.

"If you need to talk to a decent lawman, there's a U.S. Marshal out of Saratoga Springs named Callen who'll do right by the Hawkins," Deeks said quietly.

"Does he know you burned out Thurston?" Hofstetter asked.

"Can't say, but maybe," he responded, wondering himself.

"Then I'll keep your name out of it. Both of them," he said with a tight smile. "Keep a sharp eye out on your travels. I would hate to find you hanging from a tree."

"At least we agree on that," Deeks said softly. "Though I doubt that'll be Thurston and Wallace's choice on how to end my sorry life."

"I wish you well, Mr. Gentry," Hofstetter said kindly.

"Call me Deeks. I'm a might tired of Max," he said with a wan smile. "Besides if they catch me I'd just as soon die with my real name."

"I am sending a man down to Fort Steele in the morning to report what has happened," he said as he turned to leave. "Thurston's attacks have been ignored for too long."

"Could I ask a favor?" His face needy as the man turned back. "Could your man check on Nap Irish up in Ol' Waddy's cabin? His pet wolf was wounded savin' my life. He could probably use some help and some food maybe."

"Pet wolf?" A wide smile broke across the big rancher's face as he shook his head. "I think I will be sorry not to hear more stories of this man."

"He is one of a kind," Deeks grinned in return.

"Take care, Deeks."

"You and your men to watch yourselves," Deeks warned. "Black Jack Wallace ain't just a mean sonofabitch, he's a smart one."

"We know what war is," he responded. "We hold the high ground and if he comes he will reap the whirlwind."

The rancher strode out into the icy night, followed by his men, each looking long at him as they passed, the last one touching the brim of his hat before he walked out. Deeks felt lighter somehow, the rancher showing no pity for him, but simply understanding what he had endured. He slid back down and settled into a soft pile of pungent hay, fighting sleep until a young boy hurried in with a glass of beer and a plate of cold slices of beef and crusty bread. His stomach growled making them both smile and his thoughts turned to the Arapaho encampment he was headed for.

...

Deeks adjusted himself in the saddle and stared at the swirling Bighorn River, wide and dirty with runoff, its banks crusted with snow. Heavy clouds still hung over the rough landscape beyond, but it hadn't started to snow yet, although he could tell it would before long. Hofstetter's man had brought him to a shallow crossing where the river narrowed and for that he was grateful. Jakob had been one of the men holding a gun on him the night before, so Deeks had been wary of him in the beginning. They didn't talked much on the journey, but the man could speak English and had asked him about Nap's wolf, so eventually he'd agreed to share some stories.

"You ride west, you come to Owl Creek" Jakob said as he handed him a tightly wrapped burlap sack.

"What's this?" He asked.

"Mrs. Hawkins made you this food," he said, smiling gently. "To say thank you I think."

He was touched the woman had even thought of him again, let alone make sure he had food for the trail.

"Thank her for me, Jakob."

He turned to stuff it into his saddlebag when he caught a dull glint off a rifle barrel and shouted a warning as it fired. He heard Jakob grunt and saw him grab at his arm, his horse rearing in panic as bullets sliced through the air. Deeks ripped his gun from his holster and fired as he yelled at Jakob to head back up the trail where there was cover. When they made the rocks he slid from the saddle and quickly eased the wounded man off his agitated horse.

"They know this ford," Jakob breathed out. "They wait for you."

"How bad you hit?" Deeks asked, noting how pale he was.

"It is nothing," he replied, anger now tinting his words.

"Can ya hold 'em down till I can get up higher?"

The man had pulled his rifle and simply nodded and began to fire while Deeks climbed the rocky outcropping until he could get a good look down over the river. He listened as the attackers continued to fire, finally spotting two men stretched out on their stomachs behind a snowy berm almost obscured by low growing willows. He rose up and fired, gratified when one man slumped over, his rifle sliding free of his hand. When he continued to fire, the other man quickly lost his taste for the battle, scooting back into the brush, shooting wildly until disappearing behind a pile of rough boulders. Deeks could hear the sound of his horse tearing off back down toward the plains and he cursed under his breath, knowing he would bring others.

"Comin' down to ya, Jakob," Deeks shouted.

The man was trying to remove his coat when Deeks reached him, the effort tiring him quickly. He stooped to help, apologizing, but the man just spit out a few angry comments in German he suspected were swear words. When he realized Deeks couldn't understand him, he smiled shyly and slapped his cheek lightly.

"We are lucky they cannot shoot good, ja?" he said, hissing as Deeks checked his wounded arm.

"I was. You, not so much," he replied as he pulled off the man's bandana and began tying up the wound.

"You must ride fast away," Jakob told him when he finished. "Men will come."

"Can ya make it home okay?"

"Ich bin stark...strong," he replied, making a fist as if that proved he wouldn't fall off his horse on the way back.

"If you say so, brother," Deeks said as he helped him to his feet and onto his horse.

"Geh jetzt, Deeks," he said, motioning toward the river.

He stepped aside as the man grunted and turned his horse back up the trail, and he leaped up onto Sheila's back, watching the man's progress until he could no longer see him. It was a good hour and a half ride back to the ranch and he shook his head and hoped the man was as strong as he claimed to be.

"Come on girl. No more lollygaggin' for you," Deeks said as he urged Sheila into the rushing water of the river.

He began to wonder just how many men were working with Black Jack Wallace as he cut through the willows and eased his mare into a steady gallop out across the snow covered landscape. The Arapaho village was miles from here, and he didn't want to wear Sheila out before he got there, but he couldn't deny the danger he was facing. Now he longed for it to snow, needing it to cover his tracks as Sheila stretched out into a good run, cutting across the rough, uneven ground toward the distant mountains shrouded in low gray clouds. He figured Wallace thought he'd be heading back up to Montana Territory and would follow the river up through the gap in the Bighorns. It gave him an advantage unless they cut across his trail.

"Where's the damn snow when ya need it," he muttered, Sheila responding with one semi-interested flick of her ear.

The landscape was rife with low plateaus and gouged out gullies running with melting snow, and he was forced to slow their pace as they made their way across the forbidding ground. Settling into a even rhythm, he let his mind drift back to Kenzie, wondering how she was, his anger returning with force as disturbing images of her bloody back crowded into his mind. He recalled every detail of that night, but especially how she had allowed him to take care of her, nestling in his arms, which had stunned him then just as it still did now. She had protected him, refusing to give him up even after that bastard had beaten her. When they'd talked in the Mueller's barn he had been surprised at how tough she'd been on herself for not fighting harder, for not escaping on her own. She hadn't been ungrateful for his help, but she expected a lot of herself and that was very attractive to him. He had grown up with a mother who had grown used to violence long ago, yielding to his father at times to save herself, but also pushing him to it at others when she couldn't control her own anger. It was part of their lives. She had eventually been tamed by its use and he had hated her for it, not understanding until his father had turned that violence on him.

Now, he fought not to dwell on it, preferring to remember Kenzie's gentle caress of his cheek in the Mueller brothers' barn when they were about to part ways. My God, he'd wanted her at that moment, even though she was beat to hell and he could barely stand. She had been beautiful in spite of what she had suffered and he felt a longing for her, a need he still felt deeply, one he desperately wanted to fulfill if she'd let him. He had made her a promise that he would return and he knew she was holding him to it. He only hoped he could keep it.

Sheila suddenly whinnied softly, her ears flicking back and forth as they moved across a narrow valley between two plateaus. He slowed her to a trot and turned her in a slow circle, scanning the high ground behind him, finally catching sight of a band of men coming up from the south.

"Shit."

Unsure whether they'd seen him, he reined the mare around and kicked her into a mad run for the end of the far plateau, hoping to skirt it and cut around the end before they saw him. Sheila could run with the best of them, and he let her out to full stride, kicking up snow as they tore across the icy, hard rock landscape. His luck didn't hold though, and the sound of rifle fire had him instinctively leaning low over the saddle. They were out of range, but they sure as hell wanted him to know they were coming for him. The men would have to go slow as they made there way down into the valley, so he spurred his mare and called on her to go even faster, taking advantage while he could. They'd have trouble catching up to him at this pace and he looked for signs that he was close to Owl Creek and the edge of the Arapaho reservation. He looked back to see if they were gaining on him, and saw that one had separated himself from the pack, his pale roan easily outdistancing the others. A sudden high pitched war cry cut through the air and he cursed vehemently, knowing it was Curly, the Pawnee that rode with Black Jack Wallace.

"Don't let me down girl," he called out as he tried to coax more speed from his big mare.

Coming around the base of the low plateau, the ground leveled out and his breath caught as he saw the line of willows along Owl Creek in the distance. The Pawnee continued to gain ground as Sheila began to tire, and he pressed his arm tightly against his aching ribs, the constant pounding of the ride making it painful to breathe. The sustained pace was draining his strength and he worried for his mare, afraid she might break down, but he would be wildly outnumbered if he stopped, so he sucked in a shallow breath and continued his race for the creek.

Curly let out an occasional whoop as he closed the distance between them, and Deeks could feel the air whisper as bullets streaked past him. He pulled his Colt and turned, firing back as they cut up the path along the creek. Their pace suddenly slowed and Sheila stumbled, almost throwing him, but he managed to grab hold of the saddle horn and hang on. The Pawnee took advantage, shouting a war cry as Sheila righted herself and he tried to regain his seat. He could smell the man as he charged his roan into Sheila's side, the horse's shoulder crushing into his ribs and knocking him to the ground, leaving him winded and shocked with pain. Curly was on him before he could bring his gun up to fire, but he managed to get an arm up to block the barrel of his rifle as the Indian tried to smash it into his head. The man was strong, straddling him and forcing the pistol from his hand as he pushed the rifle barrel down toward his throat. He managed to get both hands on the rifle and with all the strength he had left he shoved it into the man's chest and roared in his face as he rolled him off and onto the ground. Curly looked enraged by the move, and before he could press his advantage the man brought his knee up sharply between his legs and he screamed as blinding pain shot through his groin, causing him to lose his grip on the weapon. The Indian ripped the rifle free and stood over him spewing out angry words in Pawnee as he lay groaning on the ground, finally kicking him in the stomach before leaving him fighting for breath in the snow.

The man seemed to give him no more thought as he saw to his horse and pulled a rope from his saddle. Deeks could hear the other men coming and he knew he had to move now or be tied up and dragged back to Thurston and Black Jack Wallace. Grimacing as he sucked in a ragged breath, he fought to focus and desperately searched the snow for his gun, finally finding it little more than an arm's length away. The Indian's back was still to him as he slowly dragged himself through the snow, reaching for the weapon with icy fingers. As he grasped the butt of the pistol, he braced himself and rose up just as Curly turned, the rope hanging from his hands. Deeks fired twice into his chest, blowing the man back against the side of his horse, the animal bolting away, spinning the dying man face down into the snow.

"Didn't expect that did ya, fucker," Deeks spit out.

He had no time to savor the moment as the sound of approaching horses grew louder and he rolled over to face them, his gun spitting fire. The men scattered, some leaping down from their saddles to fire back and some shooting from the backs of the milling horses. He saw one man go down as bullets kicked up the snow around him, and he decided he would rather die fighting here than at the hands of Thurston or Wallace.

When he was forced to stop and reload, several of the men took advantage of the lull, spurring their horses toward him. He would never surrender and resigned himself to his coming fate—his only regret a broken promise to a beautiful dark haired girl. His thoughts of Kenzie muddled his mind briefly before he brought his gun back up to fire, determined to take some of them with him. But, before they overrode him he heard war whoops behind him and the soft sound of arrows splitting the air. The mounted men suddenly yanked their horses to a stop, milling in chaos and firing wildly as they yelled out warnings, their words choked off as arrows pierced their bodies. The men still able to ride turned and tried to escape, but there was none, and more arrows tumbled them from their horses. Buckskin clad legs rushed past him, their battle cries reverberating in his ears and he dropped his head to his arms as someone knelt beside him.

"Do you bleed, Bear?" the deep, familiar voice of Hand comforting as he firmly gripped his shoulder.

"No."

It was all he could manage to say and he felt Hand leave him. He raised up to watch as the few remaining men fought and died at the hands of the Arapaho, the last one trying to escape falling screaming from his horse as Hand's tomahawk sliced into his spine.

His energy faded and he lay unmoving in the snow listening to the soft chants being sung over the dead. He was still alive, still able to keep his promise to Kenzie because he had once saved the man now kneeling beside him.

"You come. Grandfather waits," Hand said as he pulled on his arm, trying to get him on his feet.

"How'd ya know?" He whispered, struggling to get up.

"We hear guns in the valley so we come. The Pawnee war cries make us angry. Not belong here," he explained. "We not like Pawnee. Thank you for his death."

"How'd ya know it was me?" He asked as he walked unsteadily to his mare.

"You lost hat," he said as if it were a stupid question, fingering his blond hair and then pointing at Sheila. "I not forget your mare."

Deeks turned to look at the bodies strewn across the snowy ground, his hands trembling slightly from the rush of battle. Must have been eight or ten of them and he found he felt no sorrow at their deaths. They had been on a mission to take him to the men who would kill him without regret and they had failed. Now he worried it would cost his Arapaho friends for helping him.

"No one will find them," Hand said as if he knew what he was thinking.

"Might be more comin'," he warned.

"Why?"

"For me."

He watched the big Arapaho, waiting to see if his words would anger him, waiting to be banished for bringing trouble onto their land and wondering where he would go if they did.

"What did you do to all these men?" Hand asked as he swept his arm toward the dead.

"A man paid 'em money to capture me," he replied.

"You angered this man?"

"Yeah."

"Should fight you man to man," Hand said, his eyes dark and resolute. "He is coward."

"Get no argument on that," he replied, suddenly too exhausted to tell him about Black Jack Wallace.

"We will watch for others," Hand said, clapping him hard on the back and practically sending him to his knees. "You are hurt."

"Just a little tired," he said.

"It is good you come," the big man's eyes softening as he laid his hand gently on his shoulder. "Your coming will make our Grandfather happy."

The words were more of a comfort than he thought they'd be. This man accepted him as family and right now he wanted nothing more than to crawl onto one of those smelly old buffalo robes inside Little Shield's tipi and sleep for a week. He ached all over, but managed to drag himself up into the saddle and saw Hand watching him with a critical eye as he was handed the reins to his horse. He leaped easily onto the bare back of the pinto and led the way up the path toward the village.

He was still surprised at the bond he felt with the big Arapaho. He had come into this territory unencumbered by friendship or family. Being alone has been his way for a very long time and thought it would remain so until he had come upon this man and made the decision to save his life. Now he had been repaid. Now he felt at home here, and would always be grateful these people had fought for him.

His mind turned to the Atwoods, and to their friendship and comfort, but he had been forced to leave them behind and was still saddened by that. He was surprised at how hollow he felt at losing them. He hoped they were all safe. He hoped Thurston had let them be and that they would understand his reasons for leaving. He realized he missed Joe and the camaraderie they had, but it was Josie's kindness that had him choking down his emotions. She had made him feel like a child again and he hadn't known what to do with that. His feelings for George were complicated, and he was fairly certain the man would believe he had made the right decision to leave. What he would think if he ever discovered he'd burned out Thurston was something he couldn't speculate on. He felt foolish worrying over what the man thought of him, but he respected him and hoped he wouldn't think poorly of him if he ever found out.

"You are far away, Bear," Hand said, interrupting his musings as he dropped back to ride beside him. "You will tell us stories tonight. We want to hear of your journey after you go away. Grandfather worried the dark spirit found you."

"I'm more worried about real life bad guys than spirits," he replied with a sad grin. "They're the ones tryin' ta kill me."

"We will not let them take you," he assured him. "That is why you returned."

"I brought trouble with me and I'll leave if you want," he offered quickly, knowing he shouldn't be surprised the man could read him so easily.

"Grandfather has been talking about you" Hand said. "Saw you in vision."

"What?"

"He will tell you," Hand said with a smile. "First, you tell about bad men who hunt you. If we catch them you will decide their death. They will be your kill."

"Think Little Shield will let me stay?" He asked nervously, knowing he had no other place to go.

"He not want you to go first time," Hand said as the village came into view.

Several of the braves who had fought for him surged past them, whooping and shouting to the people who came out to greet them. Everyone seemed to be excited by the battle and he watched as groups gathered around each man to hear of their exploits. He had to remind himself they were warriors—men who had grown up in war, fighting to hold this vast land that had always been theirs. They had lost that battle, but this small piece was still theirs, and they would fight to protect it, just as the small ranchers battled Thurston over the land these men had lost. He understood they were all fighting for their homes, but he had no claim on the land and he had no home, so his fight was for his own survival and for the survival of the people he had somehow come to care about.

"Crazy Bear," the deep voice making him look down at the old warrior now standing by his horse. "The spirits told me you were coming."

"You're gonna spook me with that talk, Grandfather," he said to Little Shield.

"We will smoke the pipe together Neisie, and the spirits will speak to you," he replied.

"Is he serious?" Deeks asked Hand as he slid from the saddle.

"Grandfather does not lie," he replied, smiling as he wrapped an arm around him and steered him toward the tipi. "You rest now. The women wait for you."

"They want my pants again, don't they?"

"You are wet from snow," he explained, smiling broadly as he shoved him inside. "They will help you get warm."

"They just want to get me naked," he laughed.

"It makes them happy," Hand replied.

"Okay then," actually surprised that he meant it.

...

...


	20. Chapter 20

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 20_

...

The sweet and pungent smell of sage and juniper greeted him as he entered the warmth of Little Shield's tipi, the familiar surroundings offering more comfort than he'd expected. Smoke from the low burning fire hung in the air, wisps drifting through the dim interior, muddling his mind as his body slowly began to succumb to exhaustion. It had been a hard week, one day rushing into the next until he wasn't even sure just how long it had been since he'd felt rested or had moved without pain. He stumbled against Hand and felt the man's grip tighten on his shoulder as two of Little Shield's older daughters came toward him, their faces open and welcoming as they took his arms and led him to the cot Hand had been laid on all those months ago.

"I'm okay," he whispered. "Just need to rest a bit."

His remark was greeted with an intense discussion in Arapaho, making him wonder what he looked like to cause this much concern, but they suddenly laughed at something Hand said, so he thought it wasn't serious. The oldest woman, called Be'eiyoo he remembered, pushed him unceremoniously down on the cot and he couldn't suppress a low moan, wrapping a protective arm around himself as the pain in his ribs spiked, taking his breath away. The discussion got louder as Be'eiyoo seemed to scold Hand and point down at him several times. He had no idea what they were saying and stretched out on the cot, grateful to be lying down.

"Is she mad at me?" Deeks asked, and tried to rise from the cot only to be spoken to sharply by the woman.

"She say you hurt. Angry with me for not telling her," Hand said, shaking his head as he tried to defend himself one more time, finally growing angry himself and started to leave.

"You leavin' me alone with these two?" Deeks called out as the other woman, whose name he couldn't remember started pulling off his boots.

"You fought Pawnee warrior," he reminded him grumpily. "They are just women."

"Yeah, right," he replied. "You're afraid of 'em, ain't ya?"

"Beecét not afraid of a woman," Hand replied adamantly, turning to glare at him.

"Someday I'll introduce ya to a woman named Kenzie," he said, laughing at the man's bravado. "She'll change your mind."

"You have woman now?" Hand asked, his face softened by a curious smile.

Before Deeks could answer, the thin woman who had pulled off his boots let out a surprised hiss and stared at him, her hand gently holding his bare foot. She said something softly in her native tongue and he pulled his foot out of her hand. Be'eiyoo was on him immediately, kneeling at his feet and grabbing his left foot, giving him a warning look and a sharp word when he resisted. Her expression changed to sadness as she traced one of the scars on the bottom of his foot with her finger. He winced, slightly angry that the healing cuts were still so tender. She spoke quietly as she examined his other foot, calling out to Hand in a trembling voice.

"They're gettin' better," he said, embarrassed by the attention.

"Who do this?" Hand demanded angrily.

"The man who hired those men you killed," he answered wearily, covering his eyes with his forearm, unwilling to say more.

Hand seemed to understand his reticence, and simply gripped his leg before standing up and quickly leaving. Deeks offered no resistance as the two women pulled off his muddy pants and covered him with a blanket. They wanted his wet shirt too, so he eased up onto an elbow and unbuttoned it for them and they quickly helped him out of it, feeling warmer as soon as he was shed of it. Be'eiyoo spoke soothingly to him as she untied his bandana, using it to wipe the dried blood from the corner of his mouth and nose. The soft whispers of the words she spoke lulled him as her hands moved over him, gently cleaning the dirt from his face and clucking softly when she saw the scars that still refused to fade from his chest. He was almost asleep by the time she finished, but she wasn't quite done with him, offering him a bowl of hot dark broth that warmed his insides and caused his stomach to growl.

"Bear sleep now," she said plainly and laughed, patting his stomach.

"You speak English," he murmured, smiling at the woman as she took the bowl and dragged the blanket up over his chest.

"Not good," she replied, looking embarrassed.

"What does Be'eiyoo mean?" He asked, starting to find it hard to keep his eyes open.

"Little White...Flower," hesitating before saying the last word and then giggling when she finally said it.

"Pretty," he mumbled sleepily.

He drifted toward sleep, but he fought it, his tired mind still unable to find peace, worrying about the men coming for him. Vaguely aware that someone was beside him, he struggled to make sense of their words, but their voices blended into a soft hum and his mind remained shrouded in the twilight of sleep until he felt someone touch his feet. He jerked awake, kicking at the hand that held his foot.

"What the hell?" He said, and struggled free of the blanket to face whoever it was.

"Grandfather has come, brother," Hand said, laying a hand on his chest and then pulling the blanket away so his scars and bruises were exposed.

"Why man do this?" Little Shield asked.

"He was gonna attack a family who'd been kind to me and I tried to warn 'em," he replied, touched by the intense anger he saw in the old warrior's eyes. "He didn't like that. Wanted to teach me a lesson. Had me dragged behind a horse for a ways. After I pulled him off his, he..."

Deeks couldn't get the words to come, the memory of it making him shiver. No one spoke, they simply waited to see if he would go on.

"Left me for dead."

"How you still alive?" Little Shield asked.

"Rancher named Atwood and a woman named Kenzi searched till they found me," he said, still amazed by it. "Atwoods tended to me."

"Who is this man who hurt you?" Hand asked.

"Edward Thurston. Owns a ranch south of here," not sure he wanted to tell them what he did to that ranch.

"I will kill him," Hand said.

"You won't get that chance, brother," Deeks said. "He won't come here. He sends others for me, like those men today."

"We will kill them if they come," Hand said clasping his hand tightly.

"Thought you said they'd be my kill?"

"I will not watch white men kill my people," Little Shield said with defiance. "If they fight us, they will die."

"I was hopin' they wouldn't come onto reservation land," he said.

"Men we kill come on our land," Hand reminded him.

Deeks hung his head, drained and feeling defeated for the first time, his plan torn apart by a reality he hadn't considered. He thought he would be safe here. He thought if he came here, everyone he had come to care about would be safe. Now he knew he'd been wrong. Now he had put this family in danger too. There was no safe haven for him anywhere. He had to go. He had to face it all alone and he laughed silently to himself, knowing he had been fooling himself. He was running. And now he had to run again or risk these people's lives.

"I'll leave soon as my clothes dry," he whispered.

"Why?" Hand asked, clearly confused.

"It's not your fight," he replied wearily. "Didn't mean to bring trouble on ya. Stupid of me to come here."

"You different now," Little Shield said, his eyes softening as he watched him. "You follow your good heart."

"All I've done is bring trouble wherever I go," he replied bitterly. "Nothin' good about that."

The two Arapaho began talking softly to one another, the old warrior finally looking at him before saying something to Be'eiyoo, who smiled and moved to the fire and ladled out another cup of dark broth. The smell was rich and the taste heavy on his tongue, but he drank it all as he watched the faces of the two men as they went back to their conversation. Knowing he had to go had him feeling hollow and alone, and his mind wandered as he tried to come up with another plan. If he cut up through the gap in the Bighorn Mountains they'd track him for sure, so he'd have to head west, up into the mountains. The thought of trekking up through the snow sent a chill through his body, but it was his only choice.

The sound of the men's voices softened and he realized how warm he was now and how sluggish he was feeling, his mind growing fuzzy, grasping at thoughts he found he was unable to string together. His eyelids began to droop and his arms and legs felt heavy. He knew he was tired, but not this tired and he looked up into the watchful eyes of the Arapaho woman.

"What did you give me?" He asked, trying to sound angry, but his tongue was thick and he could only mumble the words.

"You sleep now," Little Shield said. "When you wake, we talk."

His vision dimmed and even though he wanted to protest, he found he had no energy to form the words. They had put something in the broth and he wondered why, but that question disappeared in a haze. Hand gently pushed him over onto his back as Be'eiyoo covered him with warm blankets, and he tried to resist, but his ability to do that had been taken from him, so he gave up.

"Not fair," he mumbled as he floated into darkness.

...

Soft laughter woke him, and he blinked hard as the dull ache in his head exploded when he opened his eyes. He was surprised to see it was morning, late morning and he groaned at the nausea roiling his empty stomach. The women were watching him, giggling behind their hands as he struggled to sit up. Red Bird was the first to come to him, kneeling in front of him and offering him something to drink that he was definitely not going to take.

"I'm not dumb enough to fall for that again," he murmured softly.

She reached out and touched a faded bruise on his chest, looking up sadly at him with her deep brown eyes. He'd forgotten how beautiful she was, but his feelings for her weren't the same now. In spite of that, his body responded and he quickly covered himself. He took her hand and held it, and her expression changed to confusion. He didn't think she understood English, but he'd been wrong before so he started to explain. She put her fingers over his lips to stop him, looking at him shyly as her hand caressed his cheek.

"I told her you have woman now," Hands deep voice said from behind him.

"Is she still alone?"

"She not like any of the men," he replied, ending with a long comment in Arapaho that made Red Bird get up and leave.

"You sound angry with her," Deeks said as Hand squatted down beside him.

"Grandfather will choose for her soon," he said.

"She won't like that will she?"

"She will do as he says," he replied.

"What'd he say about me?" Deeks asked. "Is he angry?"

"No."

"And what the hell was in that broth," he demanded.

"Grandfather say you need sleep," he laughed. "He is medicine man. He make you sleep."

"Why didn't he just let me leave?" Deeks asked softly.

"You are neisie...grandson," Hand said, looking puzzled by the question.

Before Deeks could reply, a loud chorus of whooping and shouting sounded outside and Hand stood up quickly and hurried outside. As he searched for his clothes he heard someone curse in English, and he struggled into his pants and got to his feet, throwing on his shirt and grabbing the pistol from his holster as he moved gingerly toward the opening. The sky was clear and the sun made him briefly squeeze his eyes shut as his headache roared back to life. Shading his eyes to see what was going on, he saw a group of warriors crowding around someone with Hand pushing his way through them.

"You not belong here, white man," Hand shouted and he saw him raise his fist and strike someone.

"Leave him be you ugly sonofabitch."

Deeks froze at the familiar voice and then charged through the men, roughly shoving them aside as he fought to stop Hand.

"Don't hurt 'im," he shouted, and fired his gun in the air, stopping everyone.

"Marty?" Joe said breathlessly as he stood defiantly in front of George, both men bruised and bleeding.

"Dammit ta hell, Joe. Whatcha doin' here?"

"Came to find you before you got yourself killed," he replied. "Tell these assholes we're on your side."

"I not asshole," Hand said, pushing Joe hard in the chest.

"Coulda fooled me," Joe said, shoving him back.

"You know you're surrounded, right?" Deeks said with a wide grin.

"Let it go, son," George said quietly.

"You okay, George?" Deeks asked as he knelt in front of him. "Did they hurt ya bad?"

"Didn't go easy on us, boy," he answered wearily, wiping at the blood that oozed from a cut on his cheek.

He and Joe helped him to his feet, the big rancher's eyes never leaving his face. Deeks was surprised to see concern there along with relief, but he wasn't sure if it was meant for him or if he was simply glad to be alive. The warriors parted as Little Shield moved through them, his eyes curious as George gripped Deeks' shoulder.

"Glad you made it, boy," George said quietly. "Couldn't let ya face those bastards by yourself."

"Looks like he ain't exactly alone, Papa," Joe said.

"This is Chief Little Shield and his grandson, Hand," Deeks told them.

"Already met the ugly one," Joe sniped, but he smiled and Hand let it go, but his expression was thunderous.

"Show some manners, son," George said firmly as he reach out his hand to Little Shield. "I'm George Atwood and this is my son, Joe. He's a might rambunctious since your men knocked him off his horse."

Hand said something in Arapaho and the warriors laughed, making Joe take a step toward him, but Deeks stepped between them. Little Shield raised his hand in the air and everyone became completely silent, causing even Hand to step back in deference to the old warrior.

"You Atwood who save Crazy Bear?" Little Shield asked, resting his hand on Deeks arm.

"If ya mean Deeks. Yeah. We were lucky to find him alive," George said softly. "My wife Josie did her best to help him recover. He's a tough young man."

Little Chief began speaking in Arapaho then and the warriors listened respectfully and Deeks wondered what he was saying, since the men began to look at George and Joe with respect. One of the men behind him pulled him around to stare at his chest, while another tried to lift up his leg and he tried to shove him away, which was difficult since he was hopping on one foot. Hand and Joe both stepped up beside him and pushed the men away, leaving them complaining, but they left him alone.

"What's he tellin' 'em, Hand?" He asked.

"Tell what white man did to you," he replied. "Tell how these two white men found you and make you well. The people want to see your feet."

"Hell if that's gonna happen," he growled.

"Why you not show them, Bear?" He asked. "You live. You are strong. They fight for you. Let them see."

"What's he talkin' about?" Joe asked. "They fought for you? What happen? You okay, brother?"

Deeks could hear the anger and slight panic in Joe's voice and once again he was touched by his concern. He thought Hand could hear it too, as the rigid set of his jaw eased, leaving him looking at Joe with a curious expression.

"We kill men before they kill Bear," Hand said proudly. "He kill Pawnee."

"Thurston put a bounty on my head. Thinks I burned down his house," Deeks said quietly.

"Well, you did didn't ya? Thurston came lookin' for you the next mornin'. Looked like shit," Joe said, with a quick grin. "You were an idiot to go off on your own. I was so mad I wanted to beat the shit outa ya when I saw you were gone."

"He didn't hurt nobody did he? Is your mama okay? I took off so he'd leave ya alone," Deeks was agitated and Hand put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Mama's fine," Joe said. "The Muellers brought Kenzi down to stay. She told us what happened and what you did."

"She okay?" Deeks asked, even though he was afraid of the answer.

"Don't know how, but she is," he answered, his anger plain.

"I shoulda shot the bastard that night," Deeks said. "But I needed to get Kenzi outa there. You sure she's alright?"

"Wanted to come," Joe replied. "Hell, she's as crazy as you are."

"We call him Crazy Bear," Hand said, slapping him hard across the back.

"Good name for 'im," Joe grinned.

"Little Shield said you ran into trouble yesterday," George said as he came up behind him.

"Black Jack Wallace is hirin' men all up this way ta find me." Deeks replied. "I'd be dead if Hand and the Arapaho hadn't shown up."

"Then we are in their debt," George said.

"Never told us about your cousins here, Marty" Joe said. "How'd you come ta know a bunch of Arapaho?"

"Bear save my life," Hand said. "Bring me home after white men shoot me."

"I'll be damned," Joe said. "Did the same for me after some rustlers shot me off my horse."

"You bad rider. Fall off horse today too," Hand said with a slight smile.

"Didn't fall off. I was pulled off by your friends here," Joe spit out, getting angry again.

"As I recollect, Hand, you were shot off your horse too," Deeks reminded him.

"Not same. I never fall off horse," Hand said, crossing his arms and looking arrogantly at both of them.

"Yes you did. I was there, remember?" Deeks said with a widening grin. "Tried ta jump on your pinto and passed out. Fell right off. Landed on your backside."

"You fall off mare. Fall in creek, too," Hand said, poking him in the chest. "You always get wet so women take clothes off."

"Now there's a story I gotta hear," Joe said, as both men turned to stare at Deeks.

"Sounds like ya all have a lot in common, boys," George laughed.

"They are young. Fall off many more horses before they are old men," Little Shield said.

"Speak for yourself Little Shield," George said. "Ain't met a horse yet that could throw me."

"We will eat and you can tell lies," Little Shield said as he motioned toward his tipi.

"Spect you got a few lies of your own," George said as he followed the old warrior.

Hand and Joe walked on ahead arguing, leaving Deeks to slowly follow, his bare feet still tender as he gingerly made his way over the rough ground. He was suddenly surrounded by six or seven warriors, who easily and silently wrestled him to the ground, one roughly covering his mouth to stop him from calling out. Three of them held him down, while the others lifted his legs so they could examine the bottoms of his feet. He was soon surrounded by more Arapaho, everyone wanting to see what he had suffered, and the harder he struggled, the harder they held him down. He couldn't see what happened, but he heard it as Hand and Joe waded into the party and began throwing men off of him. Both were swearing in their own language and the warriors good-naturedly allowed the men to push them away until he was lying alone on the ground.

"You okay?" Joe said as he knelt beside him.

"Saw a circus poster once. Showed all kinds of weird people...Giants and tiny little head hunters, ladies with beards and a two headed girl," he recounted, as he lay sprawled on the ground. "Called a Sideshow. Think my feet might just draw a crowd for one of them circus shows. The Arapaho seem damn interested."

"They not want to harm you Bear," Hand said as he grabbed his hand to pull him to his feet. "They think you brave warrior. They are angry at what man did to you. Will fight harder for you now."

"Good to know," he replied as Joe grabbed his other arm and helped pull him up.

The whole episode was strange to Deeks, and he wasn't sure why he was ashamed of what had been done to him, but he had been until now. As he'd been forced down and held on the ground, he had been flooded with those same feelings of weakness and vulnerability he'd experienced when Thurston had cut him. All of it was mixed in with his childhood and his father and the lack of control he'd lived with as a kid. He had felt powerless as a child and powerless under Thurston's brutal assault. Both men were bullies. Both had taken something from him, not just physically—they had also taken his self worth. He knew he didn't deserve what had happened to him, but at times he wasn't sure and that left him uncertain. Maybe like Kenzi, he thought he should have fought harder, should have been able to keep the man from doing that to him. But like today, he hadn't been strong enough to stop it. Today the men who held him down hadn't done it to be cruel, they had simply been curious, and they had gotten angry over what had been done to him. It was if they wanted to experience what he had and it had changed how he felt about those still tender wounds. He wasn't exactly proud to have survived them, but he wasn't ashamed of them anymore either. The Arapaho had shared his feelings of anger and absorbed some of his pain and he felt lighter because of it.

"Tell me you know her name, Marty," Joe whispered, the grip on his arm tightening.

"What? Who?" He asked as he looked up to see Red Bird watching him with concern.

"You gone blind since I last saw ya?" Joe laughed. "The girl standin' right there, pretty as you please."

"She is Red Bird. My sister," Hand said as he stepped in front of Joe. "You not touch."

"I thought you were cousins?" Deeks stuttered out.

"Same."

The girl suddenly pushed Hand, trying to get him to move, scolding him vehemently and making Joe's smile grow even wider.

"Tell him, Bear," Hand demanded. "He not touch her. He is white man. Grandfather will kill him."

"I'm a white man," Deeks said.

"You are brother. Not same," he replied.

Deeks saw a wistful look in Joe's eyes and he reached out to drape his arm over the man's shoulder, drawing him close.

"Joe's my brother as much as you are," he said evenly. "I'd take exception if anyone was to kill 'im."

Red Bird stepped between the men and began to clean some of the dirt and blood from Joe's face, her touch as gentle as Deeks remembered. He saw the fury on Hand's face fade a bit, but he knew Joe would be playing with fire if he pursued the girl. Hand began to speak to her earnestly as she worked and it sounded as if he was trying to convince her to leave Joe be, but she snapped back at him a couple of times, while Joe simply stood their mesmerized as she cleaned his face.

"What are you tellin' her?" He asked, concerned when he saw the hostility in Hand's eyes.

"He is white. Not for her. He is ugly and falls off horse," he bristled with irritation. "Man who cannot ride is not warrior. She is stubborn woman. Not want to hear my words."

"I ain't ugly and I can ride better 'n you," Joe snarled. "You're the only ugly sonofabitch here."

"I not ugly," Hand said loudly and grabbed the front of Joe's shirt and the two men shoved and pushed each other, knocking Red Bird aside.

Deeks tried to intervene, but when a crowd gathered, he finally just let them go at each other. It would have turned into a full-scale fight if George and Little Shield hadn't come out and stopped them.

"We're guests here, son," George said forcefully in his son's face. "Don't shame us now. Ya hear?"

"Yessir," Joe said softly.

"Beecét have hard head," Little Shield said as his grandson hustled Red Bird away, the two of them bickering and making the crowd laugh.

"Reminds me of my older boy," George said quietly.

"He not ride with you?" Little Shield asked.

"Killed by the same man who hurt Joe and Deeks," George said solemnly.

"Hard to lose son," Little Shield responded. "My heart still heavy for son white men take from me."

"Joe found a brother in Deeks," George said. "He was bound and determined to find him. Couldn't lose another son, so I rode along. Hope to convince Deeks to settle with us. Maybe have a family to look after 'im. Looks like he found one here."

"Maybe he is son you lost," the old warrior said. "His spirit is weary. Maybe your son's spirit lead him to you. To heal both hearts."

George went silent at his words, and he looked for Deeks as he walked Joe down toward the horse herd, his arm draped across his shoulder as they talked.

...

George ran his hand down the quivering shoulder of the sleek red stallion, speaking slowly and softly as he leaned against his side. The animal snorted and then almost whimpered at his touch, his ears flicking back and forth as he turned to cast a look at the big man. The horse danced on one foot and then the other, still slightly agitated after the hard fall he had suffered, foam spewing from his mouth. The gray feathers tied into his mane fluttered in the early morning wind and he huffed softly as George cupped his velvet muzzle briefly before taking his rawhide bridle in hand. He walked him slowly around in a circle, critically eyeing his front left leg as Little Shield watched.

No one had been able to get near the big stallion since he had gone down trying to throw his young rider, and George had offered to try, getting only snickers from some of the braves standing around. It was Hand who chastised them and urged him to try, sending a little boy to tell his grandfather to come watch. George wasn't sure if he did it because he expected him to fail, and wanted the old warrior to see him embarrassed or because he honestly thought he might know what he was doing. Deeks and Hand had been the ones who had managed to get a hold on the bridle of the bucking horse, and George could see the Indian had a natural gift. But since they'd tied him to a stake in the ground the big chestnut stallion had tried to bite anyone who came near except for George.

The animal was beautiful and he would hate to see him put down, so he took a chance and was about to kneel down to examine his bloody knee when he heard Deeks urge caution. He could see how nervous he was, running his hands up and down the sides of his legs and biting his lip as he moved from one foot to the other, the worry on his face surprising him. He'd been trying to talk to the boy ever since he got here, but whenever he got close he would find a way to distance himself. He was almost as skittish as he'd been when they'd first met, after he'd brought Joe home. Last night around the fire when everyone was telling stories, he'd caught him staring at him with a look of deep longing in his eyes, but it had been mixed with uncertainty, and afterwards he had gone off with Hand, never speaking a word to him. Joe had told him that as happy as Deeks was to see them he was slightly angry they had come, saying it was too dangerous and that the reason he'd left was to keep them from being hurt.

"Wanna give me a hand, boy?" He asked, motioning for Deeks to come to him.

His nervousness seemed to vanish as he walked slowly toward him, cautious not to frighten the stallion by moving too quickly.

"Stand over to the left of 'im. Not too close. Just close enough to get his attention," George said. "Just keep him eyein' ya till I can get a look at his knee."

The horse snorted softly and turned his head to follow Deeks as he moved, and George slowly knelt down, running both hands down around the animal's bloody knee. The big stallion moaned only once, dropping his head briefly, but Deeks whistled a low tune and the horse quickly turned his attention back to him.

"Nothin' bad. Just a scrape," George finally announced as he stood and patted the animal on the withers. "Let him calm down a bit and then we can get a poultice on it."

Deeks ran his hand through his messy hair, standing apart and blowing out his breath, softly smiling as George walked over to him.

"He coulda kicked the shit outa ya," he said.

"He was more worried about you than he was me," George replied. "Thanks for keeping his mind occupied."

"Sure is skittish as hell," Deeks said, one hand on his hip as he watched the big stallion.

"Kinda like you been around me," George said.

"Whadda ya mean?" The muscles in his arms tightening as he looked quickly down at the ground.

"You been avoidin' me and I'd like to know why," George answered. "Have I done somethin' to offend you, son?"

"I told you once not to call me that," he replied coldly.

"And I told you once I considered you family," George said. "That ain't changed. It's why me and Joe come to find you."

"I didn't want ya to," he said, turning his back to him.

"I understand why you left, boy," George said softly. "And it was kind of you to do that, but this family won't let go of you that easy. We're kinda stubborn that way. We fight for our own."

"We ain't blood," he said wistfully.

"Neither is Little Shield, but he made you family because you saved his grandson," he replied. "You gave no thought for yourself doin' that, just as you gave none when you saved Joe and risked your own life to save Josie."

"I burned Thurston's house to the ground," he confessed quietly.

"That supposed to change my opinion of you?"

"What is your opinion of me?" He asked as he turned to look at him, his eyes wide with need.

"I told you once you had a good heart. You do, son, but you try and hide it because you think it makes you weak, but it don't," he said, taking a step closer. "It's your strength. It's what makes you worth carin' about."

"My father didn't think so," he replied.

"Your father was a hard man," he said. "So was mine. Cruel too, like I'm guessin' yours was. Men like that are blind, boy. They can't see past their own hurt. But, you didn't take up that man's cruelty. You rebelled, just like you did against Thurston's plans. It ain't in you boy, or you wouldn't have tried to save Joe or Hand or the Muellers. You know what cruelty is and you want no part of it. It's why you saved MacKenzie and burned out Thurston. You chose to be a good man and you are."

"I don't know what to say," his voice cracked as his eyes watered with tears.

"Don't run, son," George said as he laid a hand on his shoulder. "Stand and fight with the people who care about you. We'll take the bastards down together."

"I couldn't bear to see any of ya hurt because of me," he replied, shaking his head slowly as he fought his emotions.

"We feel the same about you, son," George said softly, pulling him into a hug. "You're family whether you want to be or not. I've already lost one son and I don't intend to lose another."

"You mean that?" His voice a quiet whisper.

"I don't lie, Marty, especially to my family," he replied, placing a callused hand briefly on his cheek. "Josie would never forgive me if I came home without you. Hell, MacKenzie would probably shoot me."

"How is she?" He asked with a soft grin.

"She'll be fine. Josie's lookin' after her," he replied. "She wanted to come. She's worried about you. Hold on to that one, son. She's a keeper."

"Yeah, she is," he said, turning away as he wiped at his eyes.

"The marshals know what Thurston did to her," George told him. "So does the commander at the fort. The law's after 'im now."

"Don't put much trust in that," Deeks said.

"Branch spoke to both of the marshals before he came to the ranch," he shared. "Said both men had trouble controlling their anger over what that bastard did. The Major had already sent telegrams out to the governor and to Washington and Marshal Callen was requesting a warrant for his arrest."

"What about Black Jack Wallace? He took her to Thurston," Deeks said, his eyes dark with anger. "He's around here somewheres. Been burnin' out ranchers while he was huntin' me."

"Saw some of that on our ride up," George said as they walked back toward the Arapaho. "Might need the army's help to put a stop to all these raids. The man is out of control."

"Think that'll happen?" Deeks looked surprised at that.

"They both overstepped themselves when they took MacKenzie," George said. "Most men don't hold with that. It'll be tough for Thurston's friends to ignore what he did now and what he's doin' to the good folks that live here. He's gonna find himself alone except for the gunslingers he hires. He'll be the one on the run, son."

"Still got a bounty on my head," he replied. "No law way up here."

"Just family."

George caught a flare of disbelief in his eyes, but it faded quickly, replaced by the warmth of acceptance and a soft, hesitant smile. His own heart swelled with deep emotion and he threw an arm across his shoulders as they walked up to Hand and his grandfather. The two men were arguing, and Hand's face was rigid with barely contained anger, which he turned on the both of them as they approached.

"Heenéti Woxhóóx where is son?"

"What did ya call 'im?" Deeks asked, with a quick curious grin.

"We call him Talks To Horses," Hand said, only momentarily distracted. "Need to find son."

"What's wrong? Did something happen to Joe?" Deeks demanded.

"Red Bird gone. If Joe take her, Grandfather will kill him," Hand explained.

"My son would never take a woman against her will," George said, his eyes dark and his voice low and flat.

"He looks at her too much," Little Shield said, his face rigid and cold. "I see white man's eyes when they look at our women."

"Joe's not like those men," George snapped.

"He would never hurt her, Hebesiibebe," Deeks assured him quietly. "He has a good heart. Please. Let us go find them."

The two Arapaho spoke intently to one another and George held his breath, deathly afraid of what might happen if they refused to let them search or what they would do to his son if they found him with the girl. He could feel the tension coming off of Deeks, and he gripped his shoulder, hoping his plea had worked.

"We will search together," Hand said, as Little Shield walked away. "Grandfather is angry, Bear. I warn your brother, but he not listen."

"I can't let you hurt him, Hand," Deeks said solemnly and firmly. "I won't."

George saw a shadow of regret and sadness in the big Arapaho's eyes as he nodded before backing away and turning to follow Little Shield to the horses. Deeks hung his head, his hand nervously raking through the hair at the back of his neck and George gripped his shoulder even tighter, knowing his decision had been a hard one.

The lines were drawn now. Deeks had aligned himself with his family and he knew it had cost him greatly. The Arapaho had sheltered him. The two young men had fought for one another and there was a bond between them, but Deeks had made it clear that he would let no harm come to Joe and he prayed to God it wouldn't cost them all their lives.

...

...


	21. Chapter 21

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 21_

...

They crossed the creek just below the falls and followed a narrow winding path as it led up into the forest. Joe was growing more nervous the further they went, but her shy smile as she occasionally glanced back at him drove his concerns from his mind. He had never seen a more beautiful girl, her long black hair gleaming in the soft light of morning, and even though he had been warned he hadn't wanted to refuse her invitation. She had found him before the break of dawn as he'd seen to his horse and had not been shy at all as she made her intentions clear. She didn't know much English, but the few words she did know came out soft and enticing as she took his hand and pointed toward the mountains. He saw no harm in an early morning ride, so he'd saddled his sorrel gelding and followed her to where her small black and white pinto was tied in amongst the willows. Her laugh had been so free and he had smiled easily as she mounted, surprising him that she wore buckskin britches beneath her simple tunic. She was wearing boot like moccasins that were decorated with pale blue diamond shapes and flying red birds and her tunic was heavily fringed and dotted with elk's teeth, the sleeves trimmed in pale red and yellow painted porcupine quills embroidered into zigzags. She was like no one he had ever seen before and he couldn't take his eyes off her.

The snow was beginning to melt and the burbling sound of tiny streams of runoff sang to them as they followed the upper reaches of Owl creek. When they finally stopped beside a large beaver pond, she quickly jumped down and dragged the buffalo robe she'd brought off the pinto and he helped her spread it out. It was a peaceful place. The air was crisp, filled with the songs of birds and the sharp cries of hawks, and he sighed with more contentment than he'd felt in a very long time. She pulled him down beside her and opened an elaborately decorated pouch and pulled out some pemmican and a handful of small berries, and what looked like plums and shyly offered some to him.

"We call this a picnic," he said as he bit into one of the tiny wild plums.

"Pic nic..." She repeated a couple of times, seeming to delight in the word.

"I'm Joe," he said, patting his chest.

"Joe."

"Yeah. Joe. You?" He asked, pointing at her, wanting to hear her Arapaho name.

"Me Be'Niiéíhii," she said and giggled.

He was stumped by her name and he thought she knew he would be by her laughter.

"I'll just call you Red Bird," he said, smiling softly. "It's a lot easier to say."

After that simple conversation they sat silently side by side and he watched her daintily eat a handful of little berries, completely entranced by everything about her. She grabbed his hand and pointed at the pond as ripples spread out behind a beaver as it swam. When she began talking in her own language as if he could understand her, never letting go of his hand, he felt something shift inside of him and was finding it hard to breathe. He had no real experience with women, having only spoken to a few of the ladies in town, and they were all married and older. He had kissed a girl once, before they moved out here, but he'd barely been fourteen and deathly afraid of her father so that came to nothing. When he was in the cavalry, the men had tried to get him to go upstairs with one of the saloon girls in Tucson, but he remembered his father's counsel and begged off. It got him laughed at by the other soldiers, but if he were being truthful, she had looked a little scary to him—not exactly the kind of woman you would want your mother to know about.

Red Bird seemed so innocent and he knew she was kind, just from what little Deeks had told him about her. He knew she had been married before and her husband killed, and he occasionally noted a hint of sadness about her, but she always smiled when she caught him looking at her. Going off together like this would be frowned upon by her family, especially Hand, and probably by his, but it felt right to him and he intended to enjoy his time with her.

"This hurt?" She asked as she gently touched a darkening bruise below his eye.

"A little," he conceded.

She moved closer to him as she rested her hand against his cheek and he swallowed hard, his mouth dry and his eyes never leaving her face. He reached out and tentatively touched her thick black hair, wary of their closeness and of his own self-control, but she smiled and he knew he was lost. It was only the restlessness of the horses that stopped him from very nearly kissing her, leaving him disappointed, but suddenly alert as his sorrel snorted and both horses turned toward the pine grove behind them.

"Well ain't this cozy," a voice called out, followed by the distinctive cocking of several guns.

Five men emerged from the trees, and Joe was on his feet in an instant, pushing Red Bird behind him and backing toward the horses. They were rough looking men and spread out as they approached. The leader wore a beat up black Stetson and had long greasy looking brown hair and a scraggly mustache, his red bandana draped loosely across his chest. A couple looked like cowhands, their clothing dirty as if they'd ridden a long ways, while the two men on either side of the man who spoke had the slouch of hired guns, their faces expressionless.

"Been trackin' ya for awhile, boy," the apparent leader said, spitting out a stream of tobacco juice through brown colored teeth. "Yore one of them Atwoods. Little Dicky here said he seen ya at that ranch of yours. Mr. Thurston ain't too pleased with you folks."

Joe knew he'd have no chance if he pulled his gun, but he had to find a way to get Red Bird out of here, so he kept moving back.

"Let the girl go and we can talk," he said reasonably.

"Now why would I do that?" The man replied coldly, his snide smile suddenly gone. "She's a purty one, that's for sure. Ain't had one a them in awhile. You cain't have all the fun, boy."

One of the cowhands started moving to his right, his eyes crawling over Red Bird as he licked his lips, and Joe was suddenly filled with rage at their intentions.

"Go, Red Bird," he whispered and shoved her toward the horses.

She turned without reply and made a run for her pinto, and the man holstered his gun and whooped, charging forward to cut her off. Joe tackled him to the ground, hitting him as hard as he could as Red Bird leaped onto her pony, pulling it around with a kick to make a run for the village. Another man ran at her, trying to drag her off her horse, and Joe scrambled to intercept as the others charged him.

"Get off her you sonofabitch," he growled, ripping at the man's face as he rode him to the ground.

The pinto's hooves dug into the muddy, melting snow by his head as he fought and he heard Red Bird say something in Arapaho and then his name before the pinto leaped away. He was suddenly yanked to his feet and hit across the side of the head with a pistol and his knees gave way, sagging between the two men who held him.

"Get up Dunc," the leader yelled at the man on the ground. "You and yore sorry assed brother is just about useless. Cain't even catch a little Indian girl."

"That asshole jumped me, boss," Dunc replied as he stumbled to his feet and advanced on Joe.

"Leave 'im be. Got some questions before ya beat the crap outa 'im," the boss said shoving the man away.

Things were hazy as Joe fought to right himself, struggling against the men who held him. His only consolation was that Red Bird had escaped and the men seemed to have forgotten about her.

"Whadda ya want," he mumbled.

"Ain't what I want, boy. It's what Black Jack Wallace wants," Boss man said. "He figured Gentry was hold up somewhere up this way, so when Dicky here spotted you and your daddy by that last burned out spread, Ol' Black Jack got a mite excited. Sent us ta follow ya. He here?"

"Who?"

A hard backhand across the mouth only increased his anger and he glowered at the man, determined not to give anything away.

"Don't play dumb, boy, else I'll let Dunc here pound on ya for awhile," the boss said easily as if he had all the time in the world. "Now, is Max Gentry livin' with them injuns or not?"

"Don't know any Max Gentry," he said, spitting blood between the man's feet.

"Bullshit."

Dunc might have been a little dumb, but he was strong as an ox and Joe found himself longing to pass out before the boss pulled the man off him. He was coughing up blood when the man asked him about Max Gentry again, although it was hard to hear him over the screaming pain in his head. His breath came in short gasps, but he wasn't about to tell them anything, so he gathered himself and waited for more of the same.

"What's this Gentry fella to ya anyways?"

"Nothin'. You deaf? Told you I don't know 'im," Joe choked out.

"I ain't deaf and I ain't stupid neither," the boss hissed as he grabbed his jaw. "Yore gonna piss off Black Jack if ya don't tell me."

"Don't know him either," he whispered, the pain leaving him with little energy to reply.

"Gentry kilt his brother," he explained. "He's gonna be a mite meaner than ol' Dunc here when I take ya to 'im."

Joe remembered Deeks saying he had more than just Thurston wanting him dead and his mind ran with all sorts of questions about the truth of what the man just said. He trusted Deeks, but he knew he had lived a rough existence, so maybe the man had reason, but then he realized he didn't care. Deeks had saved his life, and now he had a chance to repay him for that. He wasn't going to give him up to these bastards no matter what they did to him.

...

Hand had picked up Joe and Red Bird's trail almost immediately, but they had no idea how long they'd been gone, so he remained sullen as he searched for sign across the creek below the falls. Deeks had tried to speak to him when they first rode out, but he hadn't responded and it saddened him. George was anxious and held his anger close, adding to the tension between the men, each one left to their own thoughts in the silence. It was the stone cold look on Little Shield's face that scared Deeks. The old warrior had fought many battles against whites and Deeks knew how protective he was of his granddaughter. He feared for Joe and for himself, because he would have to fight these two men if they decided to punish Joe for his actions. He'd thought this place was a haven, but now that had changed, and he'd been surprised at how quickly and easily he had made the decision to stand with the Atwoods. All of them had fought for him, but George had said he was family, and had swept him up in his reference to him as a son and that had struck a deep, deep cord, one he didn't want to ignore. Maybe it was the knowledge that Josie was looking forward to having him come back, but whatever had taken hold of him, the pull of that family was strong and he wanted it to see if it was all real.

Hand had picked up the trail again and they cut up the narrow path along the creek, riding silently. They were passing through a snowy meadow when Red Bird's pinto broke from the trees in front of them. She was riding full out, pushing the horse to its limits, her long black hair flying wildly behind her. They all rushed toward her and saw her tears when she pulled her pinto to a stop as they surrounded her. She was crying and Deeks saw the raw anger on both the Arapaho's faces as Hand leaped from his horse and pulled her to the ground. She pushed away from him, speaking rapidly in Arapaho and pointing back the way she came, and Deeks put his hand on his gun. Little Shield wrapped her in his arms, shushing her and wiping at her tears, and then looked sadly up at George.

"Hand? What'd she say," Deeks asked anxiously.

"Five men attack them. Joe tell her to run. Fought men who try to take her," he said as he leaped back up on his horse. "They have him now."

"Where?" Deeks could hardly breathe and George looked stricken.

"Beaver pond on creek," he shouted, already urging his black horse toward the tree line.

George tore out after him, but Deeks passed him, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn't help but think that the men had been looking for him, and it hurt to believe that Joe would suffer because of him. If he was killed, why would George and Josie want anything more to do with him? He wouldn't blame them. Joe was their real son. He was just a stray they'd taken in. He had always longed for a brother and had found one in Hand, and now he'd come to feel the same about Joe. His mind blurred with rage at the thought of losing him as he wove his mare between the trees, recalling Joe's defense of him to the marshals and the silly nickname given to him by his mother.

"I'm comin' Puddin'," he whispered to himself.

Hand slowed as they neared the pond and slid silently from his horse with Deeks right on his heels. They moved slowly through the underbrush, listening for any signs the men were still here, but heard nothing. When they stepped into the clearing, they saw the buffalo robe and Red Bird's pouch lying crumpled on top, wild plums strewn around it. The ground was slushy with melting snow and they could see where Joe had fought, but no one was here now and Deeks saw George slump against his saddle. He was surprised to see Hand go to him and grip his shoulder, speaking softly to him before looking back at Deeks.

"We will find him," he said firmly, before moving swiftly over the ground looking for the trail.

"There's blood in the snow," George said roughly.

"Didn't hear a gunshot, so I don't think they shot 'im," Deeks said, trying to comfort himself as much as George.

"Here," Hand said, grabbing a handful of his horse's mane and leaping on.

They followed quickly behind him as he tracked the men back through the pine grove and down along the side of a ridge. The ground was sloppy with runoff, but Hand never lost the trail, stopping briefly several times to look ahead, not wanting to come upon them unawares. They crossed the winding creek a few times and had been working their way through a stand of yellow pine when Hand stopped and sniffed the air. They could all smell the campfire that couldn't be far away, so they quietly dismounted and tied the horses behind an outcropping of granite and followed Hand as he moved silently along the base of the rocks. When they heard Joe scream, Deeks would have lost all control if the big Arapaho hadn't stepped in front of him and slammed the flat of his hand into his chest.

"That's my boy," George spoke softly from behind, cocking the rifle he held against his chest. "I won't let him suffer."

Hand put two fingers against his lips and then motioned for him to climb the rise to their left, which would overlook the camp below them. Deeks thought he would refuse, but he had been in war and must have realized he could do more damage from up there and cover them as they went for Joe, so he nodded and started climbing. Hand didn't want the rifle Deeks offered, simply slipping a tomahawk from his belt and a long knife from the fringed sheath at his back before moving silently around the face of the ridge and down through the trees. A couple of fallen pines offered cover and they slipped beneath them, the rough camp spread out before them on a barren overlook above the rushing creek below.

Joe was staked out spread eagle on the ground, his shirt ripped and bloody from several cuts across his chest. Three men stood over him, their taunts punctuated by sharp kicks and Deeks felt Hand grip his arm, his eyes dark and his jaw hard. He had no desire to wait or to spare the men before him and he knew George wouldn't be able to either for very much longer. Hand pointed at four more men who were sitting by the campfire and patted his chest, quickly moving along the tree until he was close. Deeks looked up the ridge behind him and saw George tucked in behind a rock, his rifle aimed and ready, waiting for him to make the first move.

"Tell me about Max Gentry, friend, or I'm gonna break all the fingers on your other hand," A familiar voice demanded, obviously frustrated.

Black Jack Wallace had his back to him and Deeks walked out from under the tree and shot down one of the men standing over Joe just as George fired, killing the man wearing a red bandana. Wallace spit out a curse, going for his gun before he even turned around. Deeks fired, hitting the man in the left shoulder, sending him to the ground, his gun skidding off the edge of the overlook. He walked up and put the barrel of his pistol against the man's forehead, daring him to move as they listened to the dying screams of the men by the campfire.

"Max Gentry," the man growled.

"Shut the fuck up," he said evenly. "Joe?"

"Hey Punkin," he whispered.

Hand rushed to his side and knelt to quickly cut him free and Joe moaned, curling in on himself and gasping out a curse as he gently held his broken fingers.

"Is Red Bird okay?" His voice choked with emotion and pain.

"She is with Grandfather," Hand told him, resting his hand gently on his shoulder as he looked over at Deeks with smoldering anger.

"Joe?" George rushed passed Deeks, and kneeled next to his son, pulling him into his arms.

"Shoot the bastard, Deeks," Joe said.

"His name's Max Gentry and he's a murderer," Wallace snarled. "You been protectin' a cold blooded killer. Was he worth all that pain?"

"He's my brother," Joe whispered.

Deeks was startled, and warmth flooded his body, followed closely by guilt and a deep abiding anger for the man he held at gunpoint.

"Well, he killed mine," Wallace snarled.

"Your brother shot me in the back," Deeks said as he stepped back from the man. "Thought I was dead and tried to take my mare. She kicked the bastard and I shot 'im."

"You're a damn liar," he hissed.

"No I ain't," Deeks answered calmly. "You're the murderer. You hung a man in his own barn for no reason. Ya probably don't even remember his name. It was Hawkins and he had a wife and two little girls named Olivia and Lizzy. You want me so bad, then get up. You're still wearin' a two gun rig, so I'll give ya a fair chance to take me down."

"You gonna draw against me?" The man laughed and stood to his feet.

"Don't do this, son," George said in a voice deep with fear.

"No choice," he replied. "I either shoot 'im in cold blood or turn 'im over to the law. Don't care to do neither."

"Let the marshals deal with 'im," George pleaded.

"Don't trust the law," he replied. "Wallace was a lawman. They might just let the bastard go."

"I will kill him for you," Hand offered, raising his bloody knife.

"No, but thanks, brother. This is between him and me," Deeks said, as he holstered his gun.

Deeks stared coldly at the man and took a few steps back and Wallace did the same until he stood on the edge of the overlook. The man's eyes were deadly dark as he stared at Deeks and a slow smile spread beneath his brushy mustache as he rolled his shoulders and settled into a easy stance, his hand lingering close to his pistol. Deeks was surprised to feel nothing like himself, just an eerie echo of Max Gentry as his fingers twitched next to his Colt. When he saw the man's eyes widen for a split second, he pulled and fired as a bullet whined past his ear, clipping the brim of his hat. Black Jack Wallace fell backwards off the overlook, his arms wide as blood burst from his heart. Then there was only silence.

"Dammit Deeks," Joe said roughly. "You just scared the shit outa me."

"Me too, son," George said as he huffed out a held breath.

"I not afraid," Hand said with a quizzical look on his face. "We go now? Cousin needs help."

"Did you just call Joe cousin?" Deeks asked, finally able to smile about something.

"He save Red Bird," he answered with a shrug and started back for the horses.

Joe passed out as soon as they got him up on George's big buckskin, Deeks and Hand keeping him seated until George could mount up behind him. He slumped back against his father and Deeks squeezed his leg and shivered at how close he had come to losing both of them. He had no doubt that George would have washed his hands of him if Joe had died, knowing it was his fault he'd been tortured. He was having trouble with that and hung back as Hand led the way back toward the village.

No one spoke when they passed the body of Black Jack Wallace as it lay among the boulders along the creek, but he heard Hand chanting softly and he wondered why. He still felt nothing, not even relief and it bothered him. He had run from the man for a long time and now he wondered why he hadn't faced him down before. It wasn't because he was afraid of the bastard. He'd heard how fast on the draw the man was, but he'd always believed he was faster. The truth was, he hadn't wanted to kill him. It was only after he found out that he'd taken Kenzi and delivered her to one of the cruelest men he'd ever known that he'd begun to want the man dead. And today he'd become deeply enraged when he saw what he'd done to a man he'd come to think of as a brother, wanting to kill him when he heard Joe scream.

Hand had ridden on ahead and when they reached the village everyone had gathered to greet them, the story of the man who saved Red Bird already common knowledge. Joe woke when his father dismounted and helped him down, good-naturedly absorbing several hard slaps on the back and shoulders, as the men talked excitedly and the women reached out to touch him. Deeks got his shoulder under his arm and along with George they managed to make their way through the crowd and into Little Shield's tipi where Red Bird waited. She cried out when she saw him, but Be'eiyoo scolded her and started issuing orders as they lowered him down onto the cot.

"We'll need to splint his fingers," George said as he knelt beside him, and Be'eiyoo began talking to him rapidly in Arapaho and tried to shove him away.

She pushed George until he got up, looking a little angry until Little Shield came and took his arm, warning her away.

"She will help him. She know what to do," he told him.

He spoke to his older daughter sharply and then handed George a bowl and nodded toward Joe. George looked quickly at him and Deeks nodded his approval, knowing the old man had strong medicine that would ease Joe's pain. The woman moved aside as George held the bowl of odd smelling broth to Joe's lips and urged him to drink.

"Tastes like horseshit," Joe complained.

"You eat that a lot?" Deeks asked with a grin.

"Not on purpose," he replied, grimacing as he finished.

"May taste like shit, but before long ya sure as hell won't be feelin' any pain," he told him.

George came to stand beside him as the women surrounded Joe and began to clean him up, gently washing out the knife cuts he'd suffered. Red Bird grabbed his hand as they worked, helping him ride out the pain it caused until he finally succumbed to Little Shield's medicine and slept.

"I hate to see him hurt like this," George said roughly, crushing his hat in his big hands.

The emotion coloring his words knocked Deeks off balance and he was suddenly consumed by guilt for what had happened to this man's son. He stumbled back and slipped out of the tipi and headed for the small creek by the horse herd. As easily as Joe had called him brother, he was now finding it difficult to believe his father would still want to call him son after this. He had always hated showing his emotions or giving into them in any way, but they were rolling through him now, and he found he was having trouble dealing with everything that had happened. To come so close to having a family to call his own, only to have it ripped from him by someone he had run afoul of left him feeling devastated.

He sat down heavily on a boulder close by the creek and stripped his bandana off, dragging it through the water and then burying his face in it, welcoming the icy coldness as his heart raced. After draping it behind his neck, he stared unseeing at the mud between his feet and then picked up a smooth black stone and rubbed it clean. His mind turned back to Sage, the young boy who had been so much like him—a boy who was alone and without family and who had died before he could save him. He had laid a stone like this one on his grave to mark his passing and to let him know he was remembered, and he wondered if anyone would be there to do that for him.

"What's wrong, son?" George asked.

Deeks was shocked to see him standing there, but more so by what he'd called him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as he dropped his head and stared somberly into the creek.

"For what, Marty?" George asked, squatting down beside him.

When Deeks didn't reply, he picked up a small, flat stone and examined it before skipping it across the mellow stream.

"Don't run again, son," he said. "And dammit to hell, don't you dare blame yourself for this."

Deeks looked at him, stunned that he knew exactly how he was feeling and what he was about to do.

"But, if it weren't for me..."

"Did you forget what I said yesterday?" He interrupted. "Or do you believe I'm not a man of my word."

"Joe coulda died because of me," Deeks said bitterly. "How can ya still want anything more ta do with me?"

"What kind of man deserts a son when he needs him the most?" George asked. "Is that the kind of man you think I am?"

"No. But, I ain't really your son. Joe is."

"So you think I love you less?"

"I don't know how to answer that," he replied, choking on the words and stunned by what he said.

"You saved his life once, Marty. Gave him back to us," George said slowly as he stood and walked behind him, placing both strong hands atop his shoulders. "If Joe had died this time, it wouldn't have been because of you. It would of been because of an evil man so blinded by hate that he lost his soul. And you're not responsible for that. And I wouldn't hold it against you. Do you understand that?"

"I didn't think I'd kill him till I heard Joe scream."

"It bothers you don't it? Killin' a man."

"Never warmed to it," he replied. "Those people I mentioned up there...the Hawkins. Me and another fella came upon them being attacked by some of Wallace and Thurston's men. They knew those little girls were in that cabin, but they just kept shootin'."

"So you killed 'em."

"None of 'em by choice till today."

"A man has a right to defend himself and others if need be," he said softly. "Why does this one bother you so much?"

"Cause I wanted to do it."

"And you lost a part of yourself because of that," he said, sitting down on a boulder beside him.

"Yeah. I think I did."

"Killin's a mean business, son," George said, his voice hollow as he picked up another smooth stone and flicked it across the slow moving creek. "It haunts you."

"Is that how you felt after the war?"

"During and after," he replied. "Never slept much. Too many faces starin' back at me. That man meant to kill you. Same as the men I killed in the war. Don't make it any easier to live with, but you're not the murderer he was. You gave him a chance to defend himself and as much as it scared me, I'm proud of you for that, son."

The man's praise touched him deeply and he dropped his head, clutching his hair in both hands as he quietly gave in to his emotions. George wrapped an arm around him, leaving his hand resting on the back of his neck, patiently supporting him. They sat together for some time without speaking until Deeks could gather himself, weary beyond words but filled with hope and a sense of slight disbelief at his good fortune.

When they looked up, Little Shield was waiting beside Hand. The old warrior had stripped away the bone breastplate he'd been wearing and his heavily decorated buckskin tunic, leaving him bare chested except for a simple rawhide medicine bundle, his graying braids completely unadorned. Hand wore only a loincloth and his long hair was free of the eagle feathers he usually wore. He motioned for them to come, and Deeks had a fairly good idea about where they were headed.

"How you feel about getting naked in front of these two?" Deeks said, smiling at the surprised look on George's face.

"I'd wanna know why," he replied, eyeing the men cautiously.

"Grandfather had vision and now must send dead man's spirit away," Hand explained as he walked up and took Deeks hat off his head.

"How many of them damn things are following me around?" Deeks asked.

Neither of the Arapaho answered, they simply turned and expected them to follow. The sweat lodge was as he remembered it, and he slowly began to undress until he was completely naked. He found he wanted to be free of what haunted him and if getting naked and having smoke blown in his face would do that, he would gladly go along with it. George refused to remove anything but his hat and shirt and Deeks saw Hand smile slightly and shake his head.

"Little Shield kept his pants," George said defensively.

The men followed the old medicine man into the dark confines of the sweat lodge and Deeks was once again engulfed in heady smoke and the smell of juniper and sage. Sweat rose on his skin before he even sat down and he bowed his head until they were all settled around the smoldering fire. Little Shield and Hand began a soft, haunting chant, their voices rising with the smoke of the fire. There was a melancholy feeling to the sound, which was becoming rhythmic and louder as it went on, Hand shaking a rattle occasionally as if to punctuate what they were singing. When the chant ended, sage bundles were lit and the sweet smelling smoke blown into Deek's face, now dripping with sweat.

"Dead man's spirit gone now," Little Shield said, patting Deeks on the knee. "It will not find you."

Little Shield then took his hand and he looked down at the long knife he gave to his grandson and felt the first shiver of uncertainty. George moved uneasily by his side when the old man took his hand as well and they looked at each other, Deeks flashing a quick cocky grin and shrugged his shoulders. He hissed as Hand made a light cut across the palm of his right hand and then across the palm of George's and nodded for them to take each other's now bloody hand. As they clasped each other's hand, Little Shield tied them together with a strip of soft white buckskin and began chanting again. George seemed to understand before he did, and a soft smile spread across his face as he looked over at him.

"I think he's making it official, son," he said softly.

Deeks felt tears start in his eyes, unsure if it was from the smoke or the sacred ceremony the Arapaho was performing, but he felt a chill go through him even in the increasing heat. He stared at their two hands as their blood mingled and then up at George, tears coursing down through the sweat on his cheeks.

"Your blood is same now," Little Shield said softly as he untied them and folded the blood stained buckskin, handing it solemnly to George. "Show if he forgets."

Hand solemnly bound each cut as Little Shield held the long pipe up to the four corners of the lodge and then smoked it and passed it to Hand, who did the same before passing it to George. Deeks thought he saw tears in his eyes when he passed the pipe to him, but it might have just been the heady smoke fogging his mind.

"I have vision before you return to us, Crazy Bear," Little Shield said. "When you first come to us you walk alone. In new vision you walk with powerful people. I did not understand this vision. Then Talks-To-Horses come and now Nook Nii'ehííni fights for Arapaho woman. You are strong together. Warriors."

"Is that what ya call Joe?" Deeks asked.

"Means White Eagle," Hand explained. "Eagle is sacred. Brings blessings from Creator. Creator send Joe to fight for Red Bird. Good name for warrior."

"Yeah, it is," Deeks said softly.

"He is cousin to me now," Hand told him firmly. "Like brother. Like you, Bear."

"Can't wait to tell 'im his Arapaho name," Deeks said, touched by the reason for the name.

"You honor my family," George said. "Thank you for fighting for my sons, and for giving us safe haven here."

"This home for all of you now," Little Shield said and then put the pipe down and got up. "Too hot. We go."

Deeks laughed as they got up and filed out, the crisp air welcome as was the water offered by one of the young men. He felt different and stared down at his hand as the George dressed. He'd forgotten he was naked until a group of women walking on the path below them laughed and pointed at him.

"Shit," he said, covering himself as he turned away and hurriedly struggled into his pants.

"Bear likes women to see him naked," Hand told George.

"Don't think I'll comment on that, boys," George said as he followed Little Shield back toward his tipi.

Hand slapped him heartily on the back when he was finally dressed, guiding him down toward the horses and Deeks knew he had something he wanted to tell him. He watched him wander among the horses, looking at him from time to time until Deeks laughed and shoved him.

"Just tell me," he said.

"You like woman you have now?" He asked.

"Not sure I have her, but I sure as hell like her."

"She pretty?"

"She's beautiful," he replied softly. "Can shoot and ride and she's braver than most men I know."

"You want stay with her?"

"If she'll have me," he said, growing curious at all the questions. "Why ya askin'?"

"Red Bird like brother. She think White Eagle good man," he said, watching him for a reaction. "You not angry this happen?"

"Ain't mad and ain't surprised," he laughed, but then grew serious. "What'd she tell ya?"

"She woman. Like his face," he said, shaking his head. "Says he is brave. Show no fear when men attack. Wants to tell Grandfather she chooses him."

"Has she told Joe?"

"He would say no to her?"

"If he does you can change his name to Crazy Eagle."

...

...


	22. Chapter 22

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 22_

...

The snow had begun falling heavily that morning after a couple of days of fair weather and it left her feeling slightly anxious at being cooped up again. She was tired of being treated as if she might break at any moment when someone talked too loud or asked her to do anything. Josie had been more understanding than the others and she had felt some of that ease when Branch and Freeman had left, but Sarah happily continued to pamper her and Coot followed her around like some sort of old guard dog whenever she went for a walk.

"Go on outside, girl," Josie urged with a knowing smile. "You're starting to get on my nerves as much as your own. I'll call you when supper's ready"

Grateful, MacKenzie shrugged on the big wool overcoat they insisted she wear whenever she went outside and shoved her hat on before stepping out onto the side porch that looked out toward the barn. It felt good to be alone with her own thoughts as jumbled as they were, and she stepped down into the deepening snow and headed for the barn. The world had become eerily silent, and the pale gray sky blended into the land leaving no horizon, the gentle snowfall obscuring most of the trees and softening the hard outlines of the barn. She tightened the knitted muffler around her neck as she drew in an icy breath and veered toward the fence, scraping off a handful of snow that had built up on the top rail. There was nothing but whiteness as she looked toward the creek and she could make out none of the willows that lined it.

The world seemed empty, stripped of its complexities, just the opposite of her fevered mind, which was crowded with questions and unfamiliar longing. A day hadn't passed that she hadn't thought of him, always questioning if her feelings for him were real or simply the result of the fact that he has been the one who had rescued her from a terrifying situation. She had no word for her feelings, rejecting the obvious one that couldn't possibly be real. But still, there was that constant longing, a want so deep she struggled with its very existence. How had one horrifying moment in time turned into such overwhelming elation, brought about by a man she had so insensitively rejected. It seemed as if he had forgotten what she'd said to him or had discounted it in that moment of shock when he'd seen her tied to that bedpost. He had looked stricken and deeply angered by what Thurston had done to her, and she had been surprised by that, unsure what reaction she'd been expecting. He had held her when she needed it, and in that instant she had felt safe, finally believing she would survive.

The few private moments they'd shared in the Mueller's barn was the only thing that gave her hope. He had been gentle and kind, rekindling that earlier fire he'd ignited before her fear got ahold of her. Now she dreamed of his touch. Now she longed to have him hold her, to kiss her with the same passion he had that night in this house. He had promised to find her when this was all over and she so desperately wanted that to be true. She wanted and needed him to be alive. She had seen what Jack Wallace could do, and in her mind's eye she could see him lying dead somewhere, all alone where she would never find him. The thought haunted her.

"I miss you," she said softly, her words engulfed in the fog of her warm breath as it touched the icy air.

A jackrabbit making its way across the field paused as if it had heard her, staring at her for a moment before looking back toward the creek, suddenly cautious. It's big ears twitched and then it bolted for the safety of the bushes, flushed from the field by instinctive fear. Kenzie opened the big overcoat and felt for her pistol, listening intently and squinting into the dimming light to see what had frightened it. She gripped the butt of the gun and her heart quickened as a single dark shape emerged slowly from the flickering curtain of snow. She thought she should shout out a warning, but decided to rely on herself to take care of whoever was coming. The horse hung its head as if exhausted and the man rode hunched over, a blanket frosted almost white draped over his hat and wrapped around his body. They plodded slowly and purposefully forward, and she wasn't even sure he knew where he was, appearing to be asleep. As he got closer she could see it was a buffalo robe that covered him and her heart was suddenly racing and she pushed open the gate and started slogging her way through the deep snow. The horse stopped as she got closer, rearing its head and startling the man who rode it. She stopped too, hesitant all of a sudden, doubting her initial thought that it might be him.

"Deeks?"

The man shook himself as if awakening from a deep sleep and stared at her. Then he smiled and threw the robe off and stiffly climbed down from his horse and she couldn't breathe or seem to move.

"Did ya miss me?"

She felt her tears catch and freeze on her lashes at the sound of his voice. Her eyes searched his face and roved over his body, taking in everything about him. His beard was thick and his hair was past his shoulders and he wore a different buckskin jacket than the one he'd offered her at Thurston's place. This one was decorated with pale blue strips that crossed over his chest and ran down either arm, embellished with black markings in porcupine quills that looked liked bear claws. The knotted fringe that hung from the shoulders was tipped with trailing horsehair and tiny feathers that fluttered when he moved. He looked like a totally different person, not only by his dress, but also by the easy smile on his face.

"Or maybe not" He said when she didn't answer, his smile slowly fading.

When he turned back toward his mare, she finally began to move again, reaching out to take his cold hand, unsure what she wanted to say, but needing to touch him.

"It's been so long. I was scared...I was scared you were dead," was all she could think to say.

"I killed 'im," he said softly, fixing her with turbulent blue eyes.

"Who?"

"Black Jack Wallace," he replied. "Faced him and shot 'im when he drew on me."

"Good riddance," she choked out, but then began to tremble from pent up emotions.

"Are you all right?" He asked, a stark look of concern on his face. "You still hurtin'?"

"No need to worry. I'm fine," she replied, touched by the protectiveness so evident in his voice.

She let go of his hand and stepped closer, putting her hands on either side of his face, just wanting to look at him, to realize that he was finally here. When she felt his arms wrap around her, she let out a trembling breath and laid her head against his chest, comforted by the feel of his warm breath in her hair. Her uncertainty was gone and her questions seemed to evaporate, leaving her clinging to the man she had longed for and wondering what she had ever been afraid of.

"Need ta get Sheila in the barn," he said quietly. "Been ridin' since daybreak."

"You must be exhausted," she said, stepping back but unwilling to stop touching him.

"Little tired," he said. "Hungry too. Ate the last of my provisions this mornin'."

"Why don't you go on in the house," she said. "I'll see to Sheila. Josie'll be wantin' to know why George and Joe aren't with you."

She stop at her own words, suddenly fearful of what might have happened.

"They found you didn't they?"

"Yeah." He looked up at her and she couldn't read his expression, except for the sudden anger in his eyes.

"Wallace tortured Joe," he said, looking over at the house. "Wanted to know where I was."

"Is he dead?" Her words tumbling over his at the end, fearing for Josie and what it would do to her.

"No. We got to 'im before that bastard could kill 'im. But he's hurtin' pretty bad and George stayed with 'im till he can ride," he said, starting toward the gate.

"What aren't you sayin'?" She asked, trying to get a look at his face.

He looked over at her, smiling brilliantly and laughed. "Joe's got a girl."

"What?"

"And a new name," he said. "The Arapaho call him White Eagle. I'll tell that story once I get warm again. Glad Little Shield made me take that buffalo robe. Mighta froze ta death otherwise."

Passing through the gate, she felt his fingers lightly touch hers and he looked shyly at her, his smile soft and his eyes questioning. He didn't head for the house, but walked into the barn with her, closing the door behind them. He began unsaddling his mare, glancing at her every once in awhile, his eyes searching her face. Once he settled the saddle over the railing of the stall, he led the weary horse in and leaned against the big mare's shoulder, finally showing the exhaustion she knew he must be feeling. MacKenzie stepped in front of him, and took both his hands in hers, blowing softly on them to warm him. A soft smile flickered briefly as she kissed his fingers and when she looked up his eyes were bright with amusement.

"So you did miss me," he said softly.

She could only nod as he reached up and took off her hat, hanging it off his saddle horn and then did the same with his own. It was then she noticed a brown and white eagle feather tied in his long hair that hung down past his shoulder. She knew how significant it was that he should have one and fingered it, looking up at him to see if he would tell her what it meant.

"Had quite a ceremony when they gave me that," he said with pride. "Means they think I'm a strong warrior. I think it's cause I killed a Pawnee on their land."

"A Pawnee?" She shivered at the suddenly stark memory.

"Curly. Tracked me and tried to take me. I shot 'im."

"Did he hurt you?" She whispered, recalling the strength of the man.

"Not bad," he replied. "The Arapaho saved me before his men could shoot me down."

"I'll have to thank them for that," she said, smiling now. "They give you a name to go with that eagle feather?"

"That's a funny story," he laughed. "But I don't wanna talk about the Arapaho right now. I just want..."

"What?" She asked when he stopped and looked away from her.

"Will you let me kiss you?" He asked, his expression hopeful, his eyes full of the same longing she'd been feeling since he'd left.

Her eyes fell to his lips as she stepped even closer, her hands flat against his chest. She could feel him breathing, and she trembled as he gently held her head and bent down to kiss her lightly on the mouth. His lips were warm and soft and her body hummed with barely contained passion. She gave into it a little when he kissed her again, and she moaned as he pressed her back against the warm body of his mare. She had dreamed of this...of him, and she was certain that he had done the same. Now she just wanted him to hold her so she could begin to believe this all was real.

"Sorry if I got carried away some," he said, sounding embarrassed. "It was a long ride. Spent the time tryin' to remember everythin' about ya."

"And you thought of my lips?" She teased.

"Best if I don't tell ya everythin' I was thinkin' about," his laugh cocky and charming.

"You seem different," she said. "Not so angry."

"Not so lonely either," he said, as he grabbed a rough cloth and began rubbing down his mare. "George and Joe are the reason. Surprised the hell outa me when they showed up. We're kinda like family now."

He paused with his arm draped over the back of his mare, and she could see how moved he was.

"George called me his son, Kenzie. Ain't never been called that, least not the way he says it," he smiled softly to himself as he spoke, looking as if he still couldn't believe his good fortune.

"Josie's been worried about you," she told him. "She'll want news about 'em. Maybe we better go in."

"Got any feed for Sheila?" He asked as he pulled off her bridle.

"I'll get it. You might have to break the ice on the water bucket," she said as she grabbed a bucket and walked to the feed bin.

As she turned back with the bucket of feed, there was a soft creak as the barn door opened, and she saw Deeks spin and draw with lightning speed as Coot walked in and immediately put his hands up. She suddenly felt the coldness of the air and a deep chill at the change in him.

"Thunderation, boy. Don't you go and shoot me now," Coot said, jumping back. "Just checkin' on MacKenzie."

Deeks slowly holstered his gun and raised a hand in apology to the old man.

"Weren't sure if it was you at first," Coot said. "You look a mite rough, but your mare looks the same. Come on up to the house when you two finish with whatever you been doin'. Supper's about ready and you're liable to freeze if you stay out here much longer. Good ta see you again, boy."

When he left, she looked at Deeks as he rubbed his hand over his face and up through his unruly hair. He was edgy now, reminding her that neither one of them was safe yet. Thurston was still a threat to both of them, and that sobered his homecoming somewhat. He was silent as he watered and fed his horse, his mood reserved and somber and she sought to lighten it.

"Sarah made an apple pie," she said, not wanting to think about what might await them.

"Was hopin' for that," he said as he picked up both of their hats, holding hers out for her to take.

"That the only thing you were hopin' for?" She asked lightly as she donned her hat.

A smile spread slowly across his face and she thought he might actually be blushing, so she took his hand and led him from the cold barn and out into the softly falling snow. Josie and Sarah were waiting on the porch, their shawls wrapped tightly against the cold, and as much as she had grown to care for these people, she couldn't help but wish that they were anywhere but here right now. Deeks must of been feeling the same, because he squeezed her hand and cocked his head, a look of regret on his face.

Josie was the first to wrap him in a hug and then Sarah, and he looked surprised by the reception and a little shy. The warmth inside had her shedding her coat and Deeks remained silent as he pulled his hat from his head and slowly looked around.

"Smells like you need a good washin', young man," Sarah said.

"Just do the best you can before supper, Marty," Josie said, gently pushing him toward the small backroom pantry off the kitchen where a white enamel bowl and pitcher waited. "We'll pull out the tub tomorrow."

"Best hurry too," Coot said. "You got a these three hens watchin' you like a hawk."

"Oh hush, Coot," Sarah scolded, swiping at him with a dishtowel.

MacKenzie tucked herself into a corner, quietly watching him after the others went about the business of getting the food on the table, not really listening to another of the petty spats Coot and Sarah were prone to. He quickly shed his buckskin jacket and his tattered bandana, leaving him in a dark blue wool shirt, which he slowly unbuttoned, and she found herself blushing when he slipped it off. She stared unabashed at his back as he poured the heated water into the basin and bent to wash his face. She could no longer deny that she had always been attracted to him, his striking blue eyes the first thing she'd been entranced by. Now as she watched him raise one arm and then the other to scrub at the muscles along his side, she realized how incredibly attractive his body was. The last time she'd seen him without a shirt his skin had been torn and bloody, almost gray with massive bruises. Now his skin was smooth and clear and the sinuous movement of his muscles underneath made her almost desperate to touch him. He must have sensed her presence, because he turned as he wiped the cloth down his neck and across his broad chest and stared back at her, his hand pausing in mid motion. She couldn't look away and neither did he as he slowly lowered the cloth and nonchalantly cocked his hip as a soft, teasing smile softened his face. In that moment she wanted him badly and she saw the same longing in his eyes. She wasn't sure how long she would have stayed there staring at him if Josie hadn't called to her, but there was no denying the heat that was spreading through her body when she finally looked away.

When he came out fully dressed, Josie met him and immediately began asking questions, but his eyes lingered on her before he turned to answer. He assured Josie that both Joe and George were fine and she grabbed his hands with relief, and pulled him toward the table. His eyes went wide when he saw the food and they all laughed as his stomach growled.

"Dig in, boy. Sounds like it's been awhile since ya ate," Coot said as Sarah began piling food on his plate.

"He said the Arapaho call Joe White Eagle," Kenzie said. "But he wouldn't tell me what they call him."

"First time I smelled food in the Arapaho camp my stomach growled then too," he laughed. "Named me Bear-in-the-Belly. Got shortened to Bear, and after a few adventures it got to be Crazy Bear."

"Good name. You are kinda crazy," Kenzie said, poking him in the side as he cocked his head at her.

"And George? What do they call him?" Josie asked softly.

"Heenéti Woxhóóx. Means Talks-to-Horses," he replied quietly. "The Arapaho respect him and Joe, too. They'll be well tended, ma'am."

"You call me Josie, or you won't be gettin' any of Sarah's apple pie," she scolded.

"Yes ma'am," he replied with a grin, before biting into a hunk of cornbread he'd spread with honey.

"Why didn't they come with you?" She asked, obviously worried.

Deeks shot a glance at Kenzie and swallowed hard, his eyes turbulent. He closed them briefly as if gathering himself and then told them everything as he stared down into his plate of food. At one point Josie gripped his hand and Kenzie rested her hand on his other arm when he described what had been done to Joe. Coot cussed loudly and Sarah wiped her eyes, all of them stunned by it all.

"I'm so sorry, Josie," he said earnestly.

"What happened to the man who did that to my son?" Josie asked, her anger plain.

"I killed him, ma'am," he replied softly. "We killed them all."

"How is he?" She asked with a trembling voice.

"Sleepin' a lot. Chief Little Shield's a medicine man so he ain't in pain, and his daughters are always fussin' over him," Deeks said, starting to smile. "Then there's Red Bird. She don't leave his side."

"Sounds like there's a story there," Sarah said knowingly.

"They're kinda sweethearts," he said, with a light laugh.

"What's she like?" Josie asked, with a hesitant smile.

"Other than Kenzie here, she's the most beautiful girl I ever did see," he said. "Real kind ta Joe. Rides like the wind too."

"Joe and an Indian girl," Coot mused. "Won't be easy for 'em, that's for sure."

"Most people won't like it," Sarah said, not unkindly.

"Little Shield's the one who'll decide," Deeks told them between bites. "He don't like whites, but Joe fought for her. Saved her. He won't forget that. Knows he's a good man."

"And George?" Josie asked. "What's he saying?"

"He cautioned Joe," he replied. "Don't want him ta rush into anythin'. Just ain't sure Joe was listenin'."

"What do the Arapaho think?" Kenzie asked.

"Hand says their walk will be hard. Says his grandfather will watch 'em before he decides. But he ain't sure he'll be willin' to give his blessin'."

"And if he doesn't?" Sarah asked.

"I know my son. He's headstrong and that scares me," Josie said.

"Red Bird's hardheaded too, but her grandfather is chief," Deeks said. "If he says no and they run..."

"Would he hurt Joe?" Josie asked, anxious now.

"He loves Red Bird, but I don't think Hand would let him," Deeks replied cautiously. "Hand thinks of Joe as his cousin, a brother. But I don't know if he'd defy his grandfather."

"When are they comin' home?" Josie asked.

"Soon as Joe's able to ride this far," he replied.

"What if he decides to stay?" Kenzie asked. "Might be easier on both of them if he did."

"I want him home," Josie said. "That girl is welcome here. George will tell them that."

"Little Shield will be the one to say," Deeks said. "He won't let her go easily."

They finished their meals in silence, and Kenzie could see a veil of sadness drop over Deeks. He looked exhausted and the two older women recognized that, both of them urging him to go bed down for the night. Coot told him to take Chris's old room where he was staying, and Deeks refused, but the old man argued with him until Deeks ran out of energy to protest.

"Why don't you show him the room, Kenzie," Josie said with a small smile. "It's not much bigger than the pantry, but the bed's good and the quilts will keep ya warm."

Sarah handed her a lantern and she led the way down a narrow hall behind the kitchen, to a tiny room taken up mostly by the bed, with a small bedside table and a metal washstand at the foot. A rough shelf nailed along the end wall held a number of books, and Deeks took one down and began flipping through the pages.

"Joe told me his brother loved ta read," he said quietly. "Said he read to 'im all the time when they was little. Loved school, too."

"Did you go to school?" She asked, setting the lantern down on the small table.

"Once in awhile," he replied, taking her hand and holding it gently. "Mostly it was my mama taught me ta read and write. How 'bout you?"

"I went to school kickin' and screamin'," she laughed. "But I can read and write and do my numbers."

"Bet you was the smartest one in the schoolhouse," he said as he ran his hands up her arms. "I know you was the prettiest."

"You're just tryin' to get a goodnight kiss."

"I didn't get much schoolin', but I ain't dumb," he whispered, his fingers combing into her hair as he caressed her cheeks with his thumbs.

His sudden kiss sent a wave of heat to her very core and she lost all sense of propriety, wanting more than this, more of him. She was embarrassed to hear herself whine when he broke away from her, pulling on his shirt, unwilling to be denied what she had longed for.

"We can't do this now," he whispered, gently holding her hands on his chest.

"Why not?" Her eyes flashed in the glowing light and he laughed softly.

"Lots of ears outside this room," he warned. "Wouldn't be proper."

"I don't want to be proper," She grumbled as she moved to kiss him again. "I just want you."

"Damn, woman. I ain't gonna make love to ya with everybody listenin'," he said, taking her hands and pulling her toward the door.

"I'll be here awhile," he said, softening his tone, and kissing her lightly on the forehead. "And there's a real warm buffalo robe in the barn. Now get on outa here before Coot comes in here with that shotgun of his."

She knew he was right. She would wait for a better time, but still lingered, calmed now by him simply being here. They moved toward each other in the flickering light of the lantern, needing to hold each other after all that had happened. He wrapped his arms around her and she sighed in contentment as they stood unmoving and quiet, finding solace and that deep bond she had no desire to deny any longer.

"You best go now," he finally whispered, his hands now warm and gentle as he caressed her face.

"Can't, if you keep touching me like that."

"Findin' it real hard not to, darlin'," he said, his crooked grin making her flush.

She ran her hand up his chest to the hollow of his throat and slipped it just inside his shirt. His breath eased out slowly and when she looked up he had his eyes closed and was biting his bottom lip.

"I've never had a lot of patience," she said, pouting just a little.

"Better find some, or I'll forget all about Coot and propriety." He said, taking a step back and shaking his head.

"See you in the mornin' then."

"Yes you will, Sweetness," he promised and then turned her around and gently shoved her out the door.

The pet name surprised her, remembering the caramels he had given her, telling her she needed sweetening up. She had always prided herself on her toughness, and on being able to go it alone in a man's world, so she should have been offended, but that was before she came to know him. She had never thought herself to be sweet in any way, but somehow when he called her 'Sweetness', it melted her heart because it had come from him. Why and what that meant, she pondered as she prepared for bed, anxious for the night to be over and for the sun to rise on a new day.

...

She came to him in the early morning darkness. He'd reached for his gun when he heard the floor squeak, but his hand stilled when he saw her standing in the doorway, her long flannel robe held tightly around her body, and her hair a wild, tousled mess that took his breath away. There was barely enough light to see her, her face seeming to hover as if she were the recurring vision that inhabited his dreams. The silence closed in around him as he waited to see what she would do, his body tense with anticipation and a growing, fervent need to touch her. He was afraid to breathe for fear he might frighten her away as if she were a small bird instead of the strong vibrant woman she was. When she closed the door behind her and moved toward him, he drew in a whisper of air, his body responding to the sway of her hips in those few steps it took for her to reach him. He was almost startled when her fingers ghosted down his bare arm as she sat beside him on the bed.

"No one's up yet," she breathed out.

"I thought you were gonna be patient?"

"I waited all night," she replied, brushing her hand across his cheek and up into his unruly hair.

"Seems like longer."

"A lifetime," she whispered.

"You're beautiful," the words catching as he swallowed hard, trying to maintain some control over what he was feeling.

He had never been this cautious with a woman before. He loved to have a good romp with whatever girl he found interested, and there had been many, but none of them were like her. She was different. One of a kind, and he didn't want to spoil this moment by rushing. He wanted to savor her.

The room was nothing but shadows, the air chilled except around her, the heat coming off her body igniting his own. Her robe hung open, revealing she wore nothing underneath and he slowly slipped it off her shoulder, brushing her long hair back so he could see the soft curve of her breast. He heard a slight intake of breath as he trailed his fingers down to the tip, and then she moaned softly as he fondled her. She released her grip on his arm and ran her hand down his side, pushing aside the blankets until it rested on his hip, igniting a low fire that sent his heart racing like the wind. Their eyes met briefly as she leaned against him, and when he rose up her lips met his as he gathered her to him and covered her mouth with his own. Passionate hunger drove every thought from his mind except the feel of her soft, warm lips and silky skin, his hands roaming and stroking as she tangled her fingers in his hair, finally pulling his head down to her breast as she lay back across his arm with a sense of abandon.

Her robe lay open, her body moving slowly as he caressed her breasts, finally lifting her to his mouth, suckling her as his hand slid down to the soft nest of hair between her legs. She was panting and moving sensuously as she lay draped across his arm, and he was lost, his body flushing with passion for the beautiful woman he was holding.

After their first meeting, he had thought her cold, a hard woman unable to express any emotion other than anger, with a strong need to prove she didn't need a man to make her whole. He had admired her for her strength and tenacity, but the thought of making love to such a woman had made him laugh, telling Sheila she'd probably gut him like a fish before she'd let him touch her. Now she lay willingly beneath his hands and he had no idea why that should be.

"Don't stop," she whispered, pushing his hand down between her legs and he smiled and shook his head.

"Damn, woman...you can be downright demandin'," he said, kissing her as he laughed.

"Don't you want me?" She asked, suddenly sounding uncertain.

He pulled her to him as he leaned back against the top of the bed and she cuddled up to his chest, their lips almost touching as he ran his hand slowly up and down the inside of her thigh. He felt her tremble as his fingers edged inside her, and he whispered 'yes' between each kiss he gave her as his fingers moved, wanting her to feel as much pleasure as he could give her.

His mouth was on her breast when she came, and she bucked uncontrollably against him, panting out her heat as she let herself go. He lifted her then, rolling her over his side and laying her down on the bed, spreading her robe open so he could look at her. She opened her eyes as he straddled her, and he searched her face to see if she would allow him to satisfy his own pulsing need and make love to her.

"I'm not afraid," she said, understanding his concern for her as she pulled him to her.

"That's one of the things I like about you," he said as he began to move.

"You talk too much," she whispered as she pulled his head down to kiss him, moaning deeply and matching his urgent movements.

Their passion was insatiable, but he managed to pull away to finish, lying beside her, watching the curve of her breasts as she panted, the growing gray of dawn highlighting the sheen on her face. She turned to look at him and smiled, sending his heart soaring, a feeling he'd never experienced before. He touched her lips, and she rolled over, snuggling against him as he wrapped her in his arms, wanting to hold her like this forever. Pulling a quilt over her, he kissed her hair and stroked it, claiming her in his mind and praying she felt the same. He had no name for what he felt, because he had never felt this way before. He wanted to protect her, to make her wildly happy, to see her smile at him, to feel the way he felt in this moment, completely happy, something he never thought he would ever be. He was in the house of a man who wanted him to become part of his family, and he was in the arms of a woman who brought him such complete joy that he feared he was dreaming.

The light knock on the door startled them both, and he clung to her even more tightly as if someone was coming to take her from him.

"You two have a few minutes before the others are up," Josie said very quietly. "Coffee's waiting when you're decent."

She left as silently as she'd come and Deeks cursed softly until Kenzie began to giggle, then he couldn't stop himself, joining in the muted laughter until tears filled his eyes.

"I think Josie's got some Arapaho blood," he finally said. "Didn't hear her comin' at all."

"She's not surprised, that's for sure," Kensi said as she crawled over him and got up, tying her robe closed.

"Think Coot'll take his shotgun to me?" He wondered as he stood up from the bed.

She didn't reply, just stared unabashedly at his naked body before reaching out to touch a couple of remaining scars, her eyes suddenly shining with tears.

"Why are you crying?" He asked in confusion, taking her hand.

"You're body is so damn beautiful," she said.

"Men ain't beautiful," he said with a disbelieving laugh. "But you are."

"Are you still in pain?" She asked.

"Are you?" He asked, cursing himself silently for losing himself so completely that he'd forgotten about her back. "Did I hurt ya?"

"No," she replied softly, stepping into his arms and laying her cheek on his chest. "You made me forget everything. You made me feel alive. Not like some invalid that needs to be taken care of."

"What if I wanna take care of you?"

"Don't think I can take care of myself?" She went rigid and tried to pull away from him, but he held her tight and wouldn't let her go.

"I think you're strong, and stubborn, and a real hellion when ya need ta be," he said as he held her shoulders and looked into her eyes. "But you're also the woman I just made love to...soft and loving, with a body that excites the hell outa me. You make me happy, woman, and I won't let no one hurt ya ever again."

"I feel the same about you," she said softly.

"Partners, then," he said with a crooked grin.

"I like that."

"Me too, Sweetness."

...

...


	23. Chapter 23

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 23_

...

She found him behind the barn under the cottonwood trees by the rising creek, its banks crusty with the remains of yesterday's snowstorm. He was carrying a rifle as well as his sidearm and was leaning nonchalantly against the rugged trunk of one of the big old trees as he scanned the upper meadow on the other side. George always kept some of the yearlings up there, and she could see a few of them racing each other, cavorting as young horses and young men always seem to do. She remembered how good Chris had been with them, having the same good sense his father had about horses. Those two could spend hours talking over which mares to breed to which stallion, while Joe would grow bored and simply want to go riding, something he bested his brother at most days. She knew how much George missed those conversations, but could only cherish the memory now. She wondered what kind of bond he would forge with Marty, if the boy decided to stay put, something she wasn't sure would truly happen no matter how much all of them wanted it. He might stay for a while, but she thought they might all be fooling themselves if they thought it was for the long run. She had seen the attraction growing between him and MacKenzie almost from the first day. Both were independent people, used to roaming the country without an anchor, and she wasn't sure if they didn't like it that way.

"Kinda muddy out here with all the meltin' snow. Best watch your step, ma'am," Deeks said quietly, never turning to look at her.

"When you gonna start callin' me Josie?" She asked as she made her way around the remaining patches of snow, brilliant under the high sun.

"Might take me awhile," he said, flashing a quick, slightly embarrassed smile.

"I thought we were more than just friends by now," she said as she came up beside him. "You did call me mama a couple of times. You were crazy with fever, but I kinda liked it."

He didn't look at her and she thought she might have offended him, and quickly apologized, but he simply grinned shyly and began rubbing a thin, healing cut on the palm of his right hand.

"How did you get that?" She asked with concern. "Does it hurt?"

"No ma'am," he said quietly, but looked up at her, his blue eyes vulnerable, and her heart went out to him.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, Marty," she said. "I tend to poke my nose in even when it's no concern of mine."

"It kinda is your concern," he replied, staring back down at his hand. "George has a scar just like it. My Arapaho brother made both cuts and Chief Little Shield bound us together so our blood would mix."

"Making you kinsmen," She said softly. "How do you feel about that?"

"Guess I'm more concerned how you feel about it," he said. "Wasn't gonna tell ya till George got back, in case you didn't like the idea."

"Why would you think that?" Upset that he couldn't see how she felt about him. "Can't you see how important you've become to me? To all of us? Or are you actin' plain dumb just to aggravate me."

"Are ya mad at me?" He seemed surprised by her irritation and backed up a little, but he was smiling.

"Good gracious, boy. You're as dense as a sack of potatoes if you can't see I've taken to you," she told him. "And I don't need blood to prove it. You're just gonna have to take my word, if that's good enough for you."

"Yes ma'am," he said, the crooked grin growing wider, making her quite annoyed.

"Are you laughin' at me, young man?" She demanded.

"No ma'am."

"What did you call me?"

"Josie, ma'am," he said hurriedly, backing away and trying not to laugh.

"Now you're just sassin' me."

"Didn't mean ta upset ya, Josie," he replied, his smile gone and that soft look back in his eyes that cut right through her.

"You can call me Josie or any term of endearment you fancy," she finally said calmly. "Just don't call me ma'am. Makes me think you don't remember me tendin' you all those days."

"I'm never gonna forget that, Josie. Never," he said earnestly, his eyes shimmering. "Just don't exactly know how ta act with ya."

"Didn't your mama ever hug you, Marty?" She asked, smiling softly as she held out her arms.

He set the rifle down against the tree and hesitated before shyly bending down to hug her, somewhat rigidly at first, but then relaxing as she hugged him in return. She heard the soft sigh that escaped him, and she patted him gently on the back, her heart swelling with emotions that had been hiding since Chris had been killed. She felt herself tremble when he let her go, and she wiped at her tears before he could see them. He had no idea how much he had helped her believe she would survive the unforgivable loss of her oldest son, or how much she needed that hug. She missed her family deeply, but when she saw him walk through the snow and into that barn with MacKenzie, her heart had warmed as if he were her own.

"Your my boy now, Marty," she whispered, patting his chest. "And don't you forget it."

"Got no words for how that makes me feel," he said quietly, his eyes soft with unshed tears. "You been so kind and...and I'm real proud ta be a part of your family, ma'am...Josie."

She smiled at his awkwardness and hugged him again and felt his arms tighten around her, almost crushing the air out of her and it made her heart swell. She had always known he was a lonely young man, even though he had tried to hide it behind a tough exterior. He reminded her so much of George when she'd first met him, both rough and tumble young men, moving through a lonely life, fighting all comers in order to survive what life had handed them. Neither one could see that someone loved them when she was standing right in front of their eyes.

"You're a good hugger, Marty."

"It's been awhile."

"Not sure that's true, boy," she said with a smile. "Think you been givin' plenty of hugs and a bit more if I read things right."

"Ain't the same," he said shyly.

"I should hope not," Josie laughed. "You hang on to that girl, Marty. She's something special."

"Hope you ain't too upset about us being together this mornin'," he said, watching her warily. "Didn't mean no offense."

"I'm not a prude, boy," she said, taking his arm and leading him back toward the barn. "You gotta grab happiness when it comes your way. No tellin' when sorrow will find you and snatch it away before you can enjoy it. I believe we've both had enough of that in our lives."

"Sorry ya lost your son, Josie," he said, slipping his arm up and around her shoulder as they entered the barn.

"He was taken from me," she said sharply. "Killed in cold blood for no good reason. And Thurston will never pay for my loss."

"Do you want me to hunt him down for ya?" Deeks asked quietly, and she stopped, knowing he would if she asked him to.

"I won't have you become an outlaw on my account," she finally replied. "You already killed men to save Joe. I can't ask you to do it again. Couldn't bear to lose you to a hangman's noose or to that man's vengeance. I can't lose another boy."

He pulled her close and held her and she could no longer hold back her tears. She hadn't cried for Chris. She'd been too angry, so she'd kept all the pain inside. There had been no release for her until now, in the comforting arms of a found boy who somehow understood just what loss of family meant, maybe because he never really had one.

"We'll just have to trust the law," she said when she finally gathered herself, bringing her apron up to wipe away her tears. "Marshals were here a couple of days ago. Came by to see MacKenzie and give us news. They were headed to Cheyenne to see the federal judge about a warrant. Thurston stirred the pot one too many times and now it's boiled over on 'im."

"You really think the law will bring down justice on that man's head?" He sounded angry and distrustful, and she wasn't surprised at the vehemence in his voice.

"Those marshals seemed determined to try," she said. "They're good men, Marty, and they're real angry about what that man did to MacKenzie. So is the commander at Fort Steele. The telegraph wires have been singin' with all the messages they all been sendin' off to important folks. Marshal Callen wanted to talk to you, but none of us would tell him where you were."

"About what?"

"About testifying to what you know," she replied.

"What I know? Hell, I'll probably swing from a rope before that bastard Thurston does," he said, his anger darkening his eyes. "He's a powerful man, Josie. Believes the law won't touch 'im, and he's more'n likely right."

"Those marshals know you don't put much faith in the law," she said. "But it may be the only way to take the man down. They said they talked to a rancher up north who reported all the raids going on up that way. Mentioned Black Jack Wallace by name. Said he met someone who'd saved the family of a rancher that man hung. Callen said the rancher wouldn't give his name, but both them marshals thought it might be you."

"Hofstetter," Deeks whispered. "Good man. Tough too."

"So it was you who saved that family," she stated, feeling proud of him.

"Had some help, but yeah. Guess I did," he replied. "Mrs. Hawkins and two little girls. Lizzy and Olivia. Did Callen know how they're gettin' on? Lizzy was wounded."

"Sam said they were staying with Hofstetter and his family," she said. "They shot a little girl?"

"They was lookin' for me," he said, his voice raw and low, and she could sense the guilt he carried.

"Well, you seen to it that Black Jack Wallace won't hurt nobody else," she said firmly. "And it's not your fault what those men did."

"Not so sure about that," he replied.

"Now, you listen to me, Marty Deeks," she said, pulling him around to face her. "Don't you go being hard on yourself. You got no reason to feel guilty. You done the right thing all along. You just crossed an evil man doin' it."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, but she wasn't sure he was listening, so she didn't have the heart to scold him.

"You've got a soft soul, son," she said quietly, his eyes wide and so vulnerable when he looked at her, and she hoped he believed what she'd told him. "I know you're tough, but you're kind too, and look out for people. I'm proud of you for that."

He dropped his head, but she could see her praise had touched him. She thought how exhausting it must be for him to keep his true self hidden out of fear what others might think or do. She blamed his father for that, just as she'd blamed George's father for the hell he'd put him through. They both had come to her with rough edges and tortured souls because of their upbringing, but she had worked hard to make George see that being kind wasn't a weakness or something to be ashamed of, and she was determined to do the same with Marty.

"Did ya think it was a kindness when I burned the bastard's house down?" He asked gruffly.

"No, but I think you were justified after what you and MacKenzie suffered. Got what was comin' to him if you ask me, for runnin' roughshod over other folks' land," she said easily and she saw surprise on his face and a hint of something deeper in his eyes.

She was fairly sure he wasn't used to having someone on his side, and she wondered if he was testing her. She knew he wanted to trust her, but just like most kids, he had to learn the boundaries. It probably wouldn't be the last time he revealed something about himself to see how she would respond, and it made her smile. He didn't realized who he was dealing with. She'd never given up on anything she set her mind to her entire life, and he would discover just how committed she was to her family, and that now included him.

"No matter what happens, Marty, I'll stand by you," she said, and she saw his stance relax a bit. "We all will."

"Havin' a family's gonna take some gettin' use to," he said, huffing out a shy laugh.

"Welcome home, Marty."

"Good ta be here...ma'am," he answered with a cocky smile.

"Watch yourself, Punkin," she warned lightly, laughing at his teasing as they turned toward the door of the barn.

MacKenzie stood waiting just outside, and Josie smiled up at him as he slowed and stopped by her side.

"I'll have lunch ready in awhile," she said as she left them, taking one long lingering look back at her adopted son.

She had been in the shadows of a long held sadness, and she could feel that darkness lifting, her heart lighter because of the shy smile of a young man with soft blue eyes who needed her just as much as she needed him.

...

They scouted up along the north boundary into the low hills and ridges still packed with snow, and then headed east along the far side of the creek, swinging up to the high pasture where the yearlings ran. They remained silent and vigilant as they rode back across the winding creek and wove their way through the pine forest that bordered the eastern section of the ranch, before dropping down to the long meadow that led to the barn. He was drawn to a stand of birch trees along the creek, brilliant with new growth, their leaves trembling in the light breeze, and when he nodded toward them, Kenzie smiled and turned her gray to follow. There were still patches of snow around the base of the stark white trunks, but he wasn't deterred, not ready to go back just yet, wanting to spend time with Kenzie and to savor his new found home. He smiled at her as he climbed down and untied the buffalo robe from behind his saddle that Little Shield had given him, and she laughed, turning her gelding loose to graze alongside his mare.

Most of the snow had melted from the meadow and wide swaths of tiny yellow and white wildflowers interspersed with patches of emerging purple lupine stretched out toward the house. It was growing warm and the birds were taking advantage of it, their calls and songs filling the air around them as he settled down with Kenzie on the robe. Leaning back against one of the bigger trees, he threw his hat aside and pulled Kenzie to him, kissing her sweetly before wrapping her in his arms as she laid her head on his chest.

He wasn't one to notice the beauty of a place very often, but Josie had made him feel this was home and he looked at it with different eyes now. He was content, a feeling that was new to him. The ranch spread out before him, the rustic log house, the sturdy barn and rough hewn fences, the stallions milling around the corral calling to the mares, all were a part of him now, and he hugged Kenzie tighter, caught up in unfamiliar emotions.

"It's a nice place, ain't it?" He said softly.

"Reminds me of home," she replied. "It's smaller, but the feeling's the same."

"Where was home?" He asked, kissing her hair softly, realizing how little he knew about her.

"The last one was the Feld Land and Cattle Company north of Denver along the Platte," she replied, and he noted the sadness in her voice. "It's gone now."

"Your daddy sell it?"

"Charley Feld was my step-father," she said, and he could feel her agitation, so he tightened his hold on her.

"Ya don't have ta tell me if ya don't want to," he said quietly.

"Seems like a lifetime ago now," she offered as she took his hand. "Charley was good to my mama and me. Taught me to ride, shoot, track...treated me like the son he never had."

"What happened?" Sensing there was something painful in her story.

"Rustlers murdered 'em both," she said, shivering at her own words.

"Damn. What about your real daddy?"

"Killed in the war when I was seven," she said, growing tense. "Didn't really have time to get to know 'im before he was gone."

"I'm so sorry, Sweetness," he said, kissing her lightly on the forehead and hugging her to him.

"When the war ended, my mama gave me a packet of all the letters he wrote to me while he was away," she said softly. "I used to read one every night before I went to bed...over and over. Still do sometimes."

"Sounds like ya had two good daddy's," he said.

"The Atwoods want you to stay, don't they?" She asked quietly.

"Yeah, they do," he replied. "Not sure what that might be like. Ain't settled in one place since I was a kid."

She pulled away from him and sat up, looking out over the meadow, and he reached out and stroked her dark hair, worried at her reaction.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm a bounty hunter," she replied tightly. "I can't stay in one place."

"You plan on leavin' today?"

"No."

"Then think about it tomorrow," he said, reaching for her as she turned to look at him. "Spect in time we'll figured it all out."

She smiled then and he pulled her down beside him, hovering over her and taking in her incredible beauty. He was finding it hard to keep his hands off her and she smirked as if she knew what he was thinking, slowly becoming serious as she held his face in her hands and he knew he would do whatever she asked of him, without hesitation. He had never been this happy in his whole life and the thought filled him with powerful emotions. His soft kisses became urgent ones and he lost himself in the heat of it all until she pushed him up and away and shoved him over onto his back, her smile seductive and determined.

"Don't fight me, cowboy," she said, looking tough as she pulled his bandana off. "Just go easy like and we'll get along just fine."

"You say that to all the men you bring in, ma'am?" he asked in mock seriousness.

"Just the ones with blue eyes and messy yellow hair," she replied as she undid a couple of the buttons on his shirt and slid her hand inside.

"And what happens to 'em?"

"You're the first, so I guess we'll just have to find out together."

"I'm at your mercy, ma'am."

"Yeah you are, cowboy."

Her eyes turned dark, moving over his body as if she were memorizing it, and when she leaned down to kiss him he found it difficult to stay still. With growing excitement he watched her face as she straddled him, grabbing his wrists and pressing his arms down on either side of his head, biting her bottom lip before smiling.

"I knew you were dangerous," he whispered between her kisses.

"Scared?"

"Depends are whatcha plan on doin' to me," he laughed.

"What if I just held you forever?" She asked quietly, and he could see the yearning in her eyes.

"I could get used to that," he said as she let his arms go.

He rolled her off of him and gathered her in his arms as he stretched out beside her. Brushing the hair away from her face, he tenderly caressed her cheek, wondering how he had come to be so lucky.

"I just found you and I'm already afraid I'm gonna lose you," she whispered, her eyes glazed with tears.

"I'm not goin' nowhere," he tried to assure her. "And I'm not lettin' you outa my sight anytime soon, Sweetness."

"You promise?"

"I won't ever lie to ya," he said intensely.

"I'm countin' on that."

He held her close, almost desperately and she held him. He understood what she meant about being afraid. They both understood loneliness; they had grown used to it, but not realizing they were suffering until they found each other. Finding her was like discovering a river in the middle of the desert and he had waded in, never wanting to be thirsty again. He would do everything he could to hold on to her and he believed she would do the same. Life was sweet here and she made it all the sweeter.

They lost track of time until they heard Josie yelling that food was on the table, and even then they found it hard to let the other go.

"You gonna let me up?" She asked as he clung to her.

"Why should I?"

"Cause I'm hungry," she said, sounding serious.

"You'd rather eat than kiss me?" He teased.

"When I'm this hungry, yeah," she answered. "Besides, you said you weren't goin' anywhere. I'll kiss you after lunch."

"Promise?"

"Count on it, cowboy."

He watched her mount up and guide her gray toward the house, and he felt lighthearted, something he'd experienced only one other time in his life. He climbed up on his mare, but hung back, watching her and taking in the land and the home he'd been made a part of, and he suddenly whooped and slapped Sheila on the rump with his hat and tore out after her. He was happy and he intended to enjoy the experience.

...

They were all out on the porch listening to one of Coot's tall tales when he saw the horses in the pasture raise their heads and turn toward the eastern track that skirted the edge of the ranch. He spoke a soft warning and reached for his rifle and Coot did the same, while Kenzie slowly rose and went inside, her pointed look letting him know she would be covering them all from the edge of the house where she wouldn't be seen. Three riders emerged from the tree line and Deeks cocked his rifle and stood up, stepping down from the porch, followed by Josie, who shaded her eyes to see if she knew them. The lead rider rode a fine looking sorrel with white stocking feet and tipped his black hat briefly in greeting when he got closer.

"Mrs. Atwood?" He called out as he pulled his mount to a stop in the yard.

"That's me. What can I do for you?" Josie asked.

"I'm Bill Wheeler, ma'am. Sheriff over in Saratoga Springs," he said easily in a soft Southern drawl. "These are a couple of my deputies, Little Billy Mott and Gus Howson."

The men all wore badges, and Deeks eased his stance a bit, but kept his gun ready, comforted by the knowledge that Kenzie was in position by now. The sheriff looked to be in his late forties, clean-shaven except for a wide gray mustache. He wore a white shirt and a fully buttoned black vest, and his hand hung loosely by an ivory handled Colt pistol. His men were both slightly younger and dressed pretty much the same, except the one called Billy sported a pale blue bandana and the other wore a Confederate cavalry hat and had a reddish beard and seemed more interested in the horses in the field than the current conversation.

"What happened to Sheriff Barnes?" Josie asked.

"Heard he took a job down in Colorado somewhere," Wheeler replied, shoving his hat back on his head, revealing pale eyes that seemed to take in everything around him. "You expectin' trouble ma'am?"

"We've had our share lately," she replied.

"We mean no harm ma'am, so you can tell whoever's behind the house they can lower their weapon," he said. "We come with news and a request is all."

"And what might that be?" Coot asked.

"Arrested a local rancher name of Thurston," he said. "Got a circuit judge comin' in today and come to ask if any of ya would be willin' to testify at the trial. Some of the complaints said he raided your place along with a few others. Got 'im pretty much dead to rights, but it don't hurt to get the whole story out."

Deeks was so shocked he lost his grip on the rifle and almost dropped it. He looked over at Josie and she smiled hopefully, and Coot looked completely stunned.

"You talk to the US Marshals?" Kenzie asked as she stepped out from behind the house, her gun still pointed at the men.

"Came through a couple of days ago," Wheeler replied. "Told 'em I'd keep a look out for Thurston. He showed up the next day. Arrogant kinda fella. Didn't set well with me much. I arrested 'im. Threw 'im in jail. Can't say he was too happy about it."

"He ride in alone?" Deeks asked.

"Had a few men with 'im, but they backed down when we threatened to shoot 'em," Wheeler said, smiling along with his deputies. "If he done ya harm, this is your chance to make 'im pay. Trial's set for first thing in the mornin' so I thought ya might wanna come on in tonight."

"You arrest his men?" Deeks asked.

"Tell me who ya are and I might just answer your question," the man said as he stared back at him.

"Name's Deeks."

"Well, Mr. Deeks, ain't seen hide nor hair of Thurston's men, so ya got nothin' to worry about," he said easily. "If ya witnessed something Thurston did, come on in and testify."

"He don't hold much with the law," Coot said. "But he's got reason to hate that man, and so do the rest of us here."

"And who might you be, mister?"

"Coot Mueller. Thurston's men raided my family's place up by Fort Steele. Burned us out and shot me down. Did worse ta this young man..."

"That's enough Coot," Josie warned.

"He should know what that devil did to this boy and to MacKenzie," Coot said stubbornly.

"I can speak for myself, Coot," Kenzie said.

"You MacKenzie Blye?" Wheeler asked. "You got quite a reputation, miss."

"Where'd you hear that?" She asked coldly.

"Down in Indian Territory and Kansas," he said, shakin' his head. "Folks said you weren't afraid of nothin' or nobody. Guess they were wrong."

"Watch it, mister," Deeks snapped as he stepped quickly to her side.

"I'm not afraid," she said, sounding angry and defensive.

"Then why won't ya testify? What'd Thurston do to ya?" Wheeler asked.

"You don't have to tell 'im anything, Kenzie," Deeks said when he saw her take a step back as if the question alone had power over her.

"Listen folks...I can see ya don't trust me much, but the man could go free if I can't make a case to the judge," the sheriff reasoned. "Don't think none of ya want that to happen. Ride back with me. Maybe if ya see the arrogant bastard behind bars ya might change your mind."

"I ain't gonna let that devil get away after what he done," Coot said gruffly. "I ain't afraid and I'm goin'."

"Deeks?" Josie's hopeful look kept him still and he felt himself waver.

He didn't really trust this man, but then he never trusted lawmen. If there was any chance they could make Thurston pay for all he'd done, maybe this was the time to try. The thought of seeing the sonofabitch behind bars was tempting, but he didn't want Kenzie to have to face him again.

"We can't all go. Someone has to stay here at the ranch," he said. "Josie...you should stay."

"Gus here will be happy to stay and protect ya Mrs. Atwood," Wheeler offered. "He's taken a likin' to your horses. Won't be no trouble."

"Kenzie, if I go, will you stay here with Josie?" Deeks pleaded, ignoring the sheriff. "Don't like the idea of her being here alone."

"I can take care of myself, boy," Josie said, looking a little irritated with him, but it only made him smile.

"I know you can, but it'll ease my mind if I know Kenzie was here with you," Deeks said, giving her a quick hug to try and convince her.

"I don't like this," Kenzie said softly, so the sheriff wouldn't hear. "Coot you stay. I'll go in with Deeks. I can tell the judge about the raid on your place. Please."

"You just don't wanna let this boy outa your sight," Coot said with a grin.

"I think you should stay here," Deeks said intensely, not wanting her anywhere near Thurston again.

"I can take care of myself, Deeks," she said staunchly. "You don't have to protect me."

"Don't mean I don't want to," he said with a cocky grin, knowing he had lost the battle.

"Like ta get back before dark, folks," Wheeler said, sounding a bit annoyed. "Who's comin?"

"Deeks and me," Kenzie said firmly, her jaw rigid as she headed toward the barn.

"Damnedest women I ever did see," Deeks said, taking in a deep breath with resignation.

"She cares about you, son," Josie said, squeezing his arm. "And so do I. Take care of each other and get back here as soon as you can."

"I'm not sure about this," he replied, running his hand through his hair as he watched Kenzie go into the barn.

"Just tell 'em the truth," Coot said. "And don't leave out none of the details. Judge needs ta know what a devil he is."

Gus had gotten off his horse and was over by the fence with the horses. It made him uneasy that someone he didn't know would be staying here.

"Watch that guy, Coot," he said. "Don't trust 'im."

"What's got ya so skittish, boy?" The old man asked.

"Can't really say," he replied. "Only lawmen I sorta trust are those two marshals."

"You just aren't used to things goin' your way, Marty," Josie said quietly. "This is your chance to tell your side of the story. Take it and then you can get on with your life."

"Yeah...guess that makes sense."

He suddenly pulled Josie into a fierce hug, getting a laugh out of her and a pat on the back. He realized he didn't want to leave here for fear it would all somehow disappear while he was gone. When he let her go, he walked resolutely over to the deputy named Gus and poked him hard in the chest.

"Anything happens to that woman over there, I'll hunt you down and put a bullet in your head," he said darkly, feeling more like Max Gentry than the man he was now.

The man said nothing, but he knocked Deeks hand away and puffed out his chest as if to challenge him.

"Let it go, Gus. No need for a fight," Sheriff Wheeler ordered. "Get your horse if you're comin', kid. I ain't got all day."

Kenzie brought up both horses, and Deeks mounted, but took his time looking around the place and then down at Josie. She looked calm, helping him get a hold on himself, so he nodded solemnly at her when she patted him softly on the leg, and turned his mare to follow the sheriff.

...

It was twilight by the time they reached the town strung out along the river, the soft glow from all the lanterns making it seem like a welcoming place, but there were few people out on the streets. Kenzie stuck close by his side, but none of them had talked much on the long ride in. The sheriff's office sat back off the main street and there was a stable and a small corral attached that held half a dozen horses. They both pulled up when they saw the gallows out behind the jail, isolated and looking ominous against the darkening sky, the noose already hanging from the crossbeam.

"Once we get a verdict, no use waitin' to carry out the sentence," the sheriff said as he dismounted and tied up his horse. "Billy will see to the horses."

There was an assortment of rough looking men sitting and standing on the raised porch, all of them with badges and touching the brims of their hats deferentially as the sheriff walked up the three wide steps to the front door. Deeks counted six and looked them over nervously as they eyed Kenzie, moving closer to her as his fingers twitched next to his pistol.

"One thing before we go in," Wheeler said and turned to face them. "Can't allow no guns inside. That's my rule and I expect ya both to abide by it."

Deeks became quite still and he looked quickly at Kenzie, recognizing the line of tension in her jaw. One of the younger deputies stepped forward and held out his hand, while the others seemed to close in around them, and he realized they had no choice.

"Just a precaution, folks. You'll get 'em back when ya leave," the sheriff said easily.

Kenzie ran her hand down his arm, and nodded at him and he slowly undid the rawhide string that held his holster tight to his thigh and then unbuckled his gun belt and handed it to the deputy and watched Kenzie do the same.

"Makes ya feel a little naked don't it?" Wheeler laughed, and then looked embarrassed and frowned. "Meant no offense, Miss Blye."

"None taken," she replied as he pushed open the door and they followed him inside.

There were a couple of desks inside the dim, low ceiling room, and a row of rifles and a few shotguns lining a cabinet along the far wall. Wanted posters were tacked haphazardly on the pockmarked walls by a rear metal door and Deeks saw Kenzie checking the faces carefully. The deputies filed in behind them, one lighting a couple of lanterns and the rest slouching against the whitewashed plaster walls or slumping into the few chairs available.

"Spect you might recognize a few of them faces," Wheeler said when he noticed Kenzie's interest in the posters.

"I brought in two of 'em," she replied coolly.

"You'll hafta point 'em out once we're done," he drawled slowly, his eyes never leaving her face.

"You gonna show us Thurston or not," Deeks said coldly, not liking the way the man was looking at Kenzie.

"You ain't a very patient man, are ya kid?" He said as he plucked a ring of large keys off a hook by the door.

The heavy iron door squeaked loudly when he opened it and the room beyond was dark, the windows boarded over, smelling putrid and metallic, and Kenzie stopped just outside.

"I don't remember it being this bad," she said and heard a couple of the men laugh softly behind her.

"We got rid of the old cells and brought a couple over from the Territorial Prison at Laramie," Wheeler said, holding up the lantern so they could see the forbidding looking things. "Had to take down part of the end wall just to get 'em inside. Used to hold some of the worse hombres in the territory. No amenities for 'em, if ya know what I mean. Guessin' that's why they smell so bad."

The cells were eight-foot cubicles that sat on a dirt floor with rusted flat iron grid walls of no more than six inches, giving Deeks a sudden chill. He had been inside that prison once to visit a man and this reminder made him feel slightly sorry for Thurston. Wheeler opened the cell in front of him and hung the lantern on the grid, before walking past him to go to the second cell. Deeks stepped inside the room, the hair at the back of his neck prickling with sweat as he looked at the man who had terrorized him sitting alone in the dim light.

"Brung ya a couple of visitors, Mr. Thurston," Wheeler said. "The lady you spoke about and a man who calls himself Deeks."

When the figure stood and adjusted his frock coat and turned to smile at him, Deeks senses flared with fear and sudden rage, finally realizing it was a trap. He shouted for Kenzie to run, but the deputies had already grabbed her and he rushed them. He hit the man with his arm around her throat and tried to force his way out of the room, but she was yanked back, the door filling with deputies, their pistols trained on his face. He grabbed the gun closest to him and forced it into the deputy next to him and it fired, the sound deafening in the enclosed space as the smell of smoke and blood filled his nostrils. He heard Kenzie scream his name, and he struggled to reach her, but Wheeler knocked him sideways with the butt of his pistol and he collapsed back into the cell behind him. Scrambling to his knees he grabbed the iron grid to pull himself to his feet, but Wheeler pistol whipped him to the ground and slammed the door shut, leaving him lying in the dirt with blood streaking down his face.

"You are at my mercy once again, Mr. Gentry, and so is Miss Blye," Thurston crowed from the darkness. "All in all, the end of a victorious day for me but just the beginning of the nightmare for you."

...

...


	24. Chapter 24

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 24_

...

She fought to reach him, struggling against the men who held her and shouting out his name in desperation. When she heard the gun fire she stopped, afraid they had shot him, and that gave the men holding her a chance to subdue her, her wrists quickly shackled in front of her with heavy iron cuffs connected by a short chain. She slugged the man next to her in the jaw when he laughed, but it only earned her a paralyzing blow in the back and she would have collapsed if two men hadn't held her up. She waited to catch her breath and control her mounting fear, but then she heard Thurston and she pushed forward, afraid of what he might do to Deeks, calling out to him so he would know she was all right. The deputies thought it was funny and let her into the room and she suddenly felt calm when she saw him pull himself to his feet until he stood alone in the locked cell.

"You okay, Kenzie?" He asked softly. "Did the bastards hurt you?"

"I'm good."

"Miss Blye. Beautiful as ever, but still the ruffian I see," Thurston said, reaching out to finger her hair.

"Don't touch 'er you rank sonofabitch," Deeks growled as he stood holding onto the iron grid, the side of his face streaked with blood.

"I hardly think you are in a position to tell me what I can and cannot do, Mr. Gentry," Thurston said reasonably. "You both have a lot to answer for and you most definitely will."

"Does the sheriff know what kind of man you are, Thurston?" Kenzie asked defiantly.

"Sheriff Wheeler came highly recommended actually," he said with a smile. "He asked and received a very high price for his loyalty, so my reputation doesn't really factor into the conversation."

"You a woman beater too, Wheeler?" Kenzie asked, then turned to see how stunned Deeks was by her question.

"You attacked 'im and burned down his house. I think he had a right to whup the dickens outa you," the man replied.

"Is that what he told you?" Deeks asked, snorting out his contempt. "He had her kidnapped. I found her tied up in his bedroom. I'm the one who burned him out."

"Too late for dime novel stories, Mr. Gentry," Thurston said flippantly.

"Shut the fuck up, ya piece of shit," Deeks growled.

"He horsewhipped me, sheriff," Kenzie said evenly, watching a brief look of disgust pass behind the man's eyes. "But I'm guessing you don't really care about the truth anymore than he does."

"I shoulda let 'er shoot you, Thurston," Deeks' voice full of regret and simmering anger.

"Yes, you probably should have," he said. "But you have principals as I recall, so you thought that by burning me out you could teach me a lesson. That's rather simpleminded, Mr. Gentry, even for you. And now that you've confessed, you'll hang for it."

"You're the one who should hang, Thurston," Kenzie said, angered by his belittling of Deeks.

"Are you accusing me of a crime, Miss Blye?" He responded. "What proof do you have except the fanciful stories of a renegade who just admitted to burning down my ranch? Any adverse testimony he may give will be easily discounted by the judge at tomorrow's trial, and once he's convicted in a court of law, no one will give his earlier accusations any credence at all."

"What about my testimony?" She asked.

He smiled and ran the back of his fingers lightly over her cheek.

"Oh, Miss Blye...were you under the impression this was going to be a fair trial?" He asked softly. "Did you think I would let you tell lies about me to the Honorable Judge Hannibal Reeves? Not that he would be in any mood to listen. I believe he might have already finished his first bottle of whiskey by now, and he's a nasty fellow the day after such intemperance."

Kenzie's temper flared and she surged forward and managed to knock him sideways against the cell before the deputies could yanked her back. Deeks was on him in an instant, his hands reaching through the grid of iron to clutch at the man's throat. Thurston roared in anger as he tore at Deeks' fingers, his eyes wild as he fought to breathe.

"Let 'im go, or I'll put a bullet in her," Wheeler shouted, pressing the barrel of his pistol into Kenzie's shoulder. "And that ain't an idle threat, mister."

Deeks' eyes went from pure rage to perfect clarity and he released Thurston, shoving him away and panting from his effort. She saw a feral look appear on his face she had only seen on the faces of some of the more desperate killers she had tracked down, and she was frightened for him. She realized then that he would not only kill for her, but he would sacrifice himself and do anything to protect her, and that was dangerous for him.

"I want him shackled," Thurston shouted at the sheriff, stroking his bruised throat as he stared in at Deeks. "I should have stayed to watch you die out there, you ignorant guttersnipe."

"I survived everythin' you did to me ya sonofabitch, and I never did yield."

"I highly doubt you'll survive this time, Gentry, whether you yield or not," He rasped out. "Your last night in this world will be spent in chains. No food, no water...just time to regret having made an enemy out of me."

"I got a lot of regrets, but burnin' you out ain't one of 'em," Deeks said.

"I'm comin' in kid and if you put up a fight, Billy will put a bullet in her leg," Wheeler warned.

Deeks moved to the back of the cell, his fists gripped tightly at his sides and his turbulent blue eyes never leaving her face. She felt hot tears on her cheeks as she watched Wheeler and three of his men surround him and he never said a word. He resisted briefly when they lifted his leg to yank off his boot, but a warning by the sheriff made him stop. Thick iron shackles were forced around his wrists and then chained tightly to the leg irons they placed around his bare ankles. When they were finished, his arms were stretched down in front of him and he couldn't raise his hands more than a few inches. She felt her heart racing as she choked on angry tears, but for some reason he shrugged his shoulders at her and offered her a sad smile.

"Don't turn your back on him Wheeler," Deeks said quietly. "He don't think any more of you than he does of me. When he goes down, he'll take ya down with 'im."

"I don't take advice from men like you," the sheriff replied.

"But you'll take money from a man who sent men to burn out two ranchers that I know of and attack another, woundin' a good woman," Deeks replied. "Black Jack Wallace worked for 'im. Hung a man in his own barn and then hunted down his wife and two little girls, shot one of 'em. All done in this man's name so he could take their land. Thurston's a coward who don't care for no one but himself. His rich daddy disowned 'im and kicked his ass out of his own country cause of what he did to his wife..."

Thurston shoved the sheriff aside and hit him hard across the mouth, enraged by the truth of his words, and Kenzie was suddenly proud of his defiance.

"Truth hurts, don't it?" Deeks taunted, spitting blood on the man's shirtfront, earning him a slap he simply laughed at.

"A quick death is not enough punishment for you, Gentry," Thurston said harshly. "Gag him, Sheriff Wheeler. I'm tired of listening to his lies. When Wallace gets back you'll hear the truth."

"Sounds like you're startin' to believe your own bullshit, Thurston. Ain't sorry ta tell ya, but Black Jack Wallace ain't comin' back," Deeks said, flashing a cocky grin. "When I stopped him from torturin' my brother, he drew on me and I shot 'im. Bastard fell right off a cliff."

"You outdrew Jack?" Wheeler sounded impressed, but Thurston looked shocked.

"You're a liar," his voice breathless.

"A man don't lie about killin' another," Deeks said and Wheeler nodded, but then pressed Deeks' own bandana between his teeth and tied it behind his head, gagging him into silence.

"You can rot in here until your trial," Thurston finally spit out smugly. "My evening will be spent in the comfort of my room with Miss Blye to keep me company. You interrupted my plans last time, but tonight I will finish what I started."

Deeks' muffled cry of rage tore at her heart and his attempt to charge the man sent him to the ground. She hadn't hated someone this much since tracking down her parents' killers, and she cursed as Thurston laughed and walked out of the cell.

"Have your deputies take Miss Blye to my room at the hotel, Sheriff. And make sure she's tied down," He ordered. "I'll be at the saloon with Judge Reeves."

The raw sound of Deeks' anguish filled the dark enclosed space as Thurston strode confidently from the room. Kenzie felt a sudden flash of fear at his words, but as she watched Deeks struggle to right himself, fighting even when he knew he was helpless, drove all fear from her mind. This was the man she had found left for dead. This was the man who had managed to walk despite unbearable pain. He never gave up, and neither would she.

"Take her, Billy," the sheriff ordered.

"Deeks..." She called to him as they tried to force her from the room. "Deeks... Remember who I am."

He became still, his blue eyes intense as they stared at each other and he nodded as she was dragged out and the door slammed shut between them.

"Come along, missy," Billy said as he pulled her toward the front door.

"Stay with her till the boss gets there," Wheeler ordered, his pale eyes skimming over her body.

"How can you work for a man like Thurston?" Kenzie asked with contempt.

"You think you're better 'n me?" Wheeler growled. "Hellfire, lady, you're a damn bounty hunter. Making money off outlaws same as me."

"Deeks isn't an outlaw," she said, trying to keep her anger under control.

"He's a gunslinger. It's why Thurston hired him in the first place," Wheeler said, sounding distant and dismissive.

"The difference between him and you is that he realized what kind of man he was working for and tried to stop him," Kenzie said fervently. "You're just blinded by his money and maybe his status."

"Maybe I just understand him. Before the war, I owned a rice plantation down along the coast of Georgia," the man said bitterly, his drawl deepening. "Sherman burned it to the ground and freed every damn slave I owned. Gentry won't get no sympathy from me, lady, and neither will you. Get 'er outa here Billy."

She was pulled out the door and into the growing darkness, her hope gone that she might be able to bring the sheriff over to their side. Now she was truly on her own and settled her mind on how to get free. She turned her attention to Billy. He was taller than she was, but had a slender, kind of wiry build. The way he wore his gun let her know he was left-handed and she noticed he had a slight limp, which might give her an advantage. He acted kind of lackadaisical as he walked beside her, seemingly unworried that she might try something. She looked quickly around as they approached the back of the hotel, but the town seemed deserted.

"Where is everybody?" She asked.

"Town's under curfew," he said easily. "Folks don't want no trouble with Sheriff Wheeler. He keeps a tight rein on 'em. Got regular patrols and everythin'."

"Sounds like you mighta been a soldier," she said as he paused by the back stairs.

"My daddy was kilt in the Battle for Atlanta," he replied. "He served under Col. Wheeler and when the war was over he come to talk to my mama. I asked if I could go with 'im when he rode out. I was ten. Been with 'im ever since."

"You admire him," she said softly.

"He's like a daddy to me," he replied. "Now git on up those stairs, little lady, and don't try nothin'. Want to have you all tied up neat like when Mr. Thurston gets back."

"What time will that be?" She asked as they started up the stairs.

"Don't rightly know," he replied, stopping to think about it. "Went on a hellbender last night. Don't know if he's fixin' ta throw another, but watch yourself, he's kind of an ornery drunk."

"He's ornery most of the time," she replied, getting a snorting laugh from the clueless deputy.

She bided her time until Billy got her inside the empty back hallway and opened the door to Thurston's room overlooking the street. He warned her to be good when they got inside, but turned his back to her as he bent to light one the lamps. When the flame flared, she jumped him from behind, looping the chain between her cuffs over his head, yanking back forcefully on his throat, as she slammed her knee up between his legs. He coughed out an agonizing groan and she felt the air leave him as she throttled him with the heavy chain, pushing him down to the floor as he flailed and clawed at her arms. His face turned bright red and he finally passed out, but she kept the pressure on for a few more seconds, wanting to make sure he was out.

"Not bad for a little lady, is it Billy?" Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

She rolled him over until he was face down at the end of the bed before edging over to the window to see if anyone was on the street. She could see the saloon, and a couple of Wheeler's deputies talking just outside, but there was no one else. Taking the cords that held back the curtains, she quickly tied Billy's hands to one leg of the iron bed and his feet to the other.

"Let's see how you like being gagged," she said bitterly as she crammed one of the small towels from the washstand in his mouth and tied it down with his bandana.

She quickly blew out the lamp, leaving her in the dark with all her fears for Deeks. She couldn't give into those fears or she wouldn't be able to function, but she couldn't get the image of him in chains out of her mind. She knew he was a fighter, but now he was alone again. Now he was at the mercy of the man who had tortured him and meant to hang him and she was the only one here to try and stop it. She just didn't know how. Her mind raced and jumped all over the place, trying to formulate some way to get help. Her horse was in the sheriff's corral, and his deputies patrolled the streets. She had no idea where to go.

"I'm so sorry, Deeks. You knew something wasn't right," she whispered and leaned her head against the closed door, blinking back her sudden tears.

Her mind swam with impressions of him—the instant heat she felt the first time she saw him, the slouch of his hips as he'd walked toward her, the depth of emotion in the soft blue of his eyes and that cocky smile she had wanted so badly to wipe off his face. Then he had bought her caramels and yesterday he had ignited a fire within her when he called her Sweetness.

"I can't lose you...I can't," she murmured, tasting the remembered sweet flavor of caramel on her tongue.

"Mr. Huber..."

Her mind flashed into sharpness. Mr. Huber at the dry goods store would help her. He was a friend and he didn't like Thurston. She smiled and cracked the door open and peered into the dimly lit hall. She listened briefly and stepped out, closing the door silently behind her and then darted for the door to the back stairs. When she reached the bottom, she made her way past the door to the hotel kitchen, ducking under the windows and keeping to the shadows. The distant sound of the piano from the saloon serenaded her as she moved stealthily around discarded boxes and empty bottles that littered the back of the hotel, slowly making her way to Mr. Huber's place. She knew he lived behind the store with his wife and young son, she just didn't know if he would take her in. There was a light in the back window and when the door suddenly opened she slammed herself breathlessly into the wall, caught unawares.

"Who is there? I want no trouble here," Mr. Huber said, sounding frightened.

"It's me, Mr. Huber. MacKenzie," she said, stepping into the light from the lantern he held.

"Miss MacKenzie? What is wrong?" He asked as he stared down at the manacles on her wrists.

"Thurston had the sheriff arrest us," she said. "I escaped."

"Come inside...schnell," he said, looking nervously around as he pulled her toward the door.

She hadn't realized she was shivering until the warmth of the room hit her. A young boy was staring wide-eyed at the cuffs on her wrists and Mrs. Huber stood frozen with two plates in her hands.

"Was ist das?" She sputtered in surprise.

"Sorry to impose, ma'am," she said, hoping the woman wouldn't order her out.

There was a rapid conversation she couldn't understand, except for her own name, and then the woman handed the plates she held to her son and said something sharply to Mr. Huber, who practically jumped when she spoke. Kenzie had no doubt who was in charge in this house and the woman had yet to say anything to her.

"Come, MacKenzie. I have tools to free you," he said as he ushered her out of the room and into the back of the store. "My wife...she is upset."

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Huber," she said as he examined the cuffs. "I had nowhere else to go."

"No, no...you are welcome here, Miss MacKenzie," he said. "Verena is angry they treat you so badly. Why they do this?"

"They're gonna hang Deeks," she choked out.

"Who is this Deeks?"

"He was the blond man with blue eyes who bought me caramels," she half whispered. "He called himself Max Gentry then."

"Ja, ja. He pay for mess with twenty dollar gold piece," Mr. Huber said as he struck one cuff off and then the other with a hammer and large chisel. "I think he like you."

"I have to get him out of there," she said as she rubbed her wrists.

"No, no...Sheriff has too many men," he cautioned. "You stay here. We will hide you."

"I won't let him hang," she said as she stood.

"First you eat," Verena Huber said from the doorway. "Then we will talk."

...

The coffee was piss poor as usual, but Callen needed it even if it did nothing to calm his agitation. Sam paced when he was antsy, or did what he was doing now, shooting at targets with some of the new recruits. Major Harney had let them share the officers' mess with him this morning, and now he could do nothing but wait for the telegram that would give him the authorization he needed to arrest Edward Thurston. They had never made it to Cheyenne, having stopped here at Fort Steele on their way, only to have the major show him the series of telegrams that had been flying back and forth between him and the Attorney General and the federal judge in Cheyenne. The promise of a warrant had kept them here, and Callen had spent the time sifting through reports of Thurston's movements and trying to figure out where he was now. He had hold up with a couple of big ranchers over the past week, but they claimed not to know where he was or his plans. One of his former hired guns was being held in Rawlins by the railroad for trying to rob one of their trains, but the man had no idea where his old boss had gotten to, telling him the man went crazy after his ranch was burned. Apparently, not many of the men wanted to work for him after that, but Callen knew he would just hire more. There were plenty of men roaming the territory willing to kill for whoever would pay them.

"Anything yet?" Sam asked, looking slightly calmer than he had at breakfast.

"Nope."

"How's the coffee?"

"Burnt."

"And you?"

"Ready to raise hell."

"Pull in your horns, G. We'll get 'im."

"Takin' too long, dontcha think?"

"Always knew I was the patient one," Sam smiled.

The rattle of a wagon coming through the gate made him bite back his response and get up from the table to see who was coming in so early. The sun was barely up, so whoever it was had to have started out in the dark, and that was definitely not normal.

"G...its MacKenzie," Sam shouted as he leaped down from the porch and trotted toward the wagon.

Callen followed, fearing something had happened at the Atwoods, and he began to simmer with even more anger. Thurston had thwarted them at every turn and he was getting very tired of it. He honestly hadn't expected the man to be this cunning, and now he was afraid that more good people had suffered because they hadn't been able to bring him to justice. Doing a double take as he saw who she was with, the look on Sam's face confirmed this wasn't what he thought.

"Thurston's in Saratoga," Sam announced. "Tell 'im MacKenzie."

"He's gonna hang Deeks," she said, her hands tightly clutching the rifle in her hands. "Not sure what he had planned for me, but it wasn't anything good."

"They had manacles on her," Mr. Huber said with obvious disgust.

"How the hell did he get to the both of you?" Callen asked.

She seemed to shrink from the question, looking down and then anywhere other than directly at him, and her eyes flashed but then filled with tears. Sam glared at him and then pulled her into a hug, holding her until she could get control of herself. When she finally told her story, it had all of them shaking their heads. It was a complex plan of attack, and Callen wasn't sure that he wouldn't have fallen for it himself. He was surprised Deeks had agreed to trust the lawman, figuring the others had probably talked him into it. He had heard of Wheeler, but contrary to what the man had told them, he had never met him, let alone talked to him in Saratoga.

"They put him in chains, Callen," she whispered at the end. "He would have kept fighting if Wheeler hadn't threatened to shoot me."

"I'm gonna kill that sheriff, G," Sam said.

"Mr. Huber took me in after I escaped. Before sunup he hid me in the back of his wagon and told Wheeler's deputies he was going to Rawlins to pick up supplies comin' in on the train," she said.

"She want to take them on alone," Mr. Huber said, shaking his head in disbelief. "My wife convince her this way was better."

"I'm so glad to find you here. I wasn't sure if the major would help me. But, we have to go now, before it's too late," she demanded, her agitation growing.

She hadn't shared everything that had happened between her and Deeks after he'd rescued her, but it wasn't hard to see that things were different now. She was afraid, something he had never seen from her. Deeks had become very important to her, and she was determined to save him. Sam's opinion of the kid had changed after he helped MacKenzie, while his own admiration for Deeks had grown steadily in spite of his aversion to the law. His tenacity was impressive and he only hoped they would be in time to help him this time. If not, he wasn't sure what it would do to MacKenzie. She had tracked down and killed the men who murdered her parents and it wasn't hard to believe she would do the same to the men responsible if they arrived too late to save Deeks from the hangman's noose.

He left the preparation to Sam and raced to find Major Harney, hoping the man would send a detail down to Saratoga. The major hadn't stopped pushing for Thurston's arrest since he'd seen what the man had done to MacKenzie, pushing even harder after he'd spoken to the rancher named Hofstetter. Finding out Thurston's men had shot a little girl had sent him raging about the depravity of mankind in general and Thurston in particular. He could be quite eloquent, except for the swear words he liberally interjected into the rant.

He finally found him in the telegraph office and the broad smile he received gave him hope.

"The warrant just came in, Marshal Callen," Harney looked triumphant until he told him what had happened.

"Hold things up anyway you can, marshal. I'll muster a troop and they'll be on your tail," the major promised. "That bastard Thurston has gotten away with too much for too long."

Callen grabbed the telegram and headed for the horses. Sam and MacKenzie were already mounted, her jaw set in a rigid line of determination. As soon as she saw him she reined her mount around, racing out of the fort with her dark hair flying, and he suddenly worried he wouldn't be able to control her once they got there, but he wasn't sure he wanted to try.

...

Deeks opened his eyes to darkness, and he strained to hear the muffled voices beyond the door. He sensed anger, but couldn't make out what they were angry about. Maybe Kenzie had escaped. He knew she would try, but that made him fear for her all the more and he hung his head down between his knees, hoping against hope that she was all right. He was cold and thirsty, his body sore and his back stiff as he leaned against the cold iron of the cell, the gag sucking all the moisture from his mouth. His rage had dissipated somewhat and now he fought the resignation that followed, letting his memories of Kenzie and the Atwood Ranch play through his mind, wanting to savor them in the last few hours of his life. He never thought he would hang. Thought he would be killed in a gunfight or bushwhacked out on the plains. There was a time he hadn't cared whether he lived or died, but that had changed. Now he desperately wanted to live. He wanted to make love to Kenzie forever and he wanted to discover what it felt like to wake up to a family that cared about him, to protect and defend a place he was beginning to think of as home. He wanted to see Joe marry. He wanted to spend time listening to George talk about horses. And he wanted to sit with Josie, teasing her into scolding him because it just felt good to know she cared enough to do it. He finally dozed off, a lingering sadness hovering around him in the dark.

...

He jerked awake at the screeching sound of the door opening, the light making him squint as Wheeler and his deputies entered the room.

"Got a visitor, Gentry," Wheeler said as he unlocked the cell.

Thurston walked in behind the sheriff, swaying slightly as he glared down at him, the smell of whiskey nauseating in the small space.

"Get him up, sheriff," Thurston slurred out, his voice a raw rasp.

Hauled to his feet, he tried to figure what had brought him here, feeling the tension between Thurston and the sheriff. A couple of deputies came up on either side of him, shoving him roughly against the wall, and he began to believe Kenzie had escaped and he smiled in spite of the gag. Thurston saw it and roared in anger, taking two strides and striking him across the cheek, knocking him into the corner. The two deputies got out of his way as the man cursed vile comments into his face as he beat him. Deeks struggled to avoid his fists, turning his body into the corner.

"Did you love her?" Thurston asked, breathing heavily from his efforts.

His muffled retort of 'fuck you' giving him some satisfaction, but Thurston understood and shoved his face into the iron grid and held him there.

"I made her suffer, Gentry," the man whispered behind him. "I made her beg."

Deeks became still at the man's words, his heart going cold. He couldn't catch his breath, afraid to find out what he'd done to her, his mind wild and his thoughts out of control.

"She was quite beautiful at the end," he said. "But she got what she deserved, don't you think?"

Deeks roared out angrily as tears blurred his vision, and Thurston simply laughed, finally pushing away from him. He managed to turn and look at the man, hoping to see the lie on his face, but all he saw was rage as the man fumbled to remove his belt.

"I did whatever I wanted to her," he rasped out as he brought the leather belt down across his shoulders. "I got to do to her what you longed to do, but now will never get the chance."

"Her body was quite lovely, but maybe you already knew that," he said, and hit him again.

"I strangled the life out of her, Gentry," the slap of the leather beating down on his back again and again, emphasizing each word as he taunted him.

A muffled scream of rage tore through him and he turned and threw himself at the man, knocking him backwards, but stumbled as the chains caught, sending him face down to the floor.

"It was quite exciting, intoxicating really," Thurston said as he stood over him. "I watched the life leave those devilish eyes of hers...watched them glaze over and fix on my face. I was the last thing she saw."

Deeks moaned in anguish, remembering the vibrant life in her dark flashing eyes. He had no more will to fight, his sorrow too deep, the new life that had burned so brightly just yesterday, now nothing but ashes.

"Bring him along, Wheeler. The judge is waiting," Thurston said. "Let's get this over with. I have a ranch to rebuild."

A couple of deputies lifted him to his knees and then to his feet, and a third knelt to undo the chain between his wrists and feet, finally freeing his arms from their painful position. The manacles around his feet were separated by a short chain that allowed him to walk in a shuffle and they pushed him toward the door. He made no effort to resist and looked only at the floor as Wheeler undid the gag before they led him from the sheriff's office and down to the street.

The sun was high in the sky, and he squinted in the brilliant light, realizing he had probably been chained in the dark for over fourteen hours. His face was streaked with dirt, blood and the tears he shed for Kenzie and he stumbled as the procession made its way up the main street to the saloon. A few people watched him pass, but they meant nothing to him. The people who did, he would never see again. He would die alone, degraded and hung as an outlaw. With nothing left he felt himself slide back toward the person he had been before he met the Atwoods and MacKenzie Blye. If he could find a way, he would kill Edward Thurston, and when he did he didn't care if they shot him down. He preferred it to hanging, now that he thought about it. He spit defiantly in the dirt before they hauled him up the stairs and into the saloon where the trial would be held, finally raising his head to stare at the man who would judge him.

Judge Reeves was an old man, his gray beard streaked with white, and his black coat looked rumpled as if he'd slept in it, his shirtfront dotted with bits of food. There was a bottle of whiskey on the faro table in front of him and he took a swig from an almost empty glass as he studied a big gold watch. He looked up at him as they shoved him down into one of the chairs that had been set out for the occasion, his eyes cold and annoyed.

Deeks ignored him, looking around to see where Thurston was as Wheeler's deputies slouched down in the surrounding chairs, most of which had been empty when they brought him in. There was a group of men drinking at the bar, but apparently his trial wasn't drawing much interest from the locals.

"You cause a ruckus durin' this trial, I'll club ya to the floor," Wheeler said from behind him.

"Fuck you," Deeks replied.

"Silence!" The judge suddenly shouted out. "This ain't a saloon today. It's my gol-darn courtroom."

Deeks heard some soft comments behind him and saw a couple of the men at the bar pull their hats off. The judge sat up a bit straighter, but his red face settled into a look of annoyance.

"This ain't no place for a lady, ma'am," Judge Reeves said, his words slurring as he put down his drink.

Everyone turned to look back at the entrance as a stout woman in an impressive yellow bonnet made her way down toward the judge. Deeks had never seen her before, but she kept her eye on him as she walked, finally stopping next to his chair.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" Wheeler stood to ask.

"Nein...No," she replied firmly. "I come to talk to Mr. Deeks."

He started to stand, but Wheeler clamped a hand down hard on his shoulder and shoved him back down in his seat.

"Who are you? What's your business with the prisoner?" the judge demanded to know, sounding even more irritated than before.

"Maybe she's his lawyer, Judge," someone shouted from the bar, getting laughs all around.

"Ain't no lawyers allowed today, gentlemen," he replied, pounding his gavel down on the table. "Now tell me who you are ma'am, and then get the hell outa my courtroom."

"You're talkin' to a lady, Judge," someone else piped up from the back and murmurs of agreement sounded around the room, as a few more people crowded into the saloon.

"Sorry for the judge's bad manners, ma'am. He's drunk," Deeks said, wincing as the sheriff's fingers gouged into his shoulder.

"Watch your mouth, boy," the judge growled.

"Whadda ya gonna do? Hang me?" Deeks replied with a cocky grin, laughter and hoots following his words.

Wheeler slapped the side of his head and the woman scolded the man sharply. It reminded Deeks of Josie and he smiled softly up at her.

"Mr. Deeks?" The woman said. "I am Mrs. Huber. You met my husband in the store once. I bring you gift, so you will remember."

"A gift?"

"Ya. A special gift," she said, patting him gently on the arm. "Caramels, Mr. Deeks. Caramels from a close friend."

He was stunned into silence, trembling as she put the small bag in his hands and patted his cheek.

"Sweetness," she said softly.

Tears clouded his eyes as he stared down at the bag and then up into the tearful eyes of Mrs. Huber.

"Never yield, Mr. Deeks."

"No ma'am. Not now."

...

...


	25. Chapter 25

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 25_

...

He closed his eyes and slowly slid his fingers into the small bag crumpled in his hand, waiting for his heart to stop beating wildly before he pulled out one of the caramels. The instant he touched one, memories from the first time he'd seen Kenzie in Huber's store, filled his senses. The smell of lavender, her striking beauty so spellbinding, brushing against her as he intervened to stop the confrontation, her curt comments that had surprisingly hurt, and finally the sweet taste of his first caramel that would forever remind him of her. He blew out his breath as his eyes suddenly blurred, pulling one of the sweets out and slipping it onto his tongue, savoring it as if it were a part of her. Sweetness. As the caramel melted, he recalled the softness of her skin, the taste of her lips against his and he experienced a feeling of deep relief and joy that she was alive. Thurston's words had all been lies. She had eluded him and now he understood the man's anger and it made him smile.

"Why you smilin'?" Judge Reeves growled at him, interrupting his thoughts. "Mr. Thurston say somethin' funny?"

"He's a liar, judge," he said easily. "But you're probably too drunk to care."

"You show me respect, boy, or I'll have you gagged," the judge sputtered, banging down his gavel and wincing as he did.

"Don't wanna hear my side of the story?" He asked.

He heard the distinct sound of a pistol being cocked beside his ear and felt the cool weight of the barrel as Wheeler brushed it down the side of his cheek and laid it on his shoulder.

"I warned you...now shut the fuck up," he said roughly. "Unless you want to spend the rest of your trial unconscious."

"Won't make no difference either way," he replied. "Don't think the truth is allowed in this courtroom."

"But you confessed to your crime, Mr. Gentry," Thurston said from the witness chair beside the judge. "The sheriff and his deputies heard you. Are you denying you burned down my ranch?"

"No, but it was justified," he replied. "You wanna tell the Honorable Judge Reeves why or should I?"

"No one is interested in your fabrications, Gentry," Thurston said with a smug smile. "You're a desperate outlaw willing to say anything to escape the hangman's noose. Nothing could justify what you did."

"You had Joe Atwood shot and probably had his brother killed. Bonner shot Josie Atwood," he said, jumping to his feet as he grew agitated, wanting the townspeople to know the truth. "You sent Jim Hedges to burn out the Muellers and Black Jack Wallace to do the same to the Hawkins' place. They hung 'im, Judge, and shot his little girl..."

"Shut him up, Wheeler," Thurston shouted as the townspeople began to murmur and ask questions.

The butt of the pistol caught him on the jaw before he could continue, the pain stunning, dimming his vision as Wheeler shoved him back down in the chair. He could hear the angry shouts around him, and he started to struggle against Wheeler's hold on him, but deputies sat down on either side and held him there. One grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back and Wheeler forced a bandana between his teeth and tied it tightly, silencing whatever else he had to say.

"I'll have order or I'll kick the bunch of you out," Judge Reeves raged at the restless people. "This is my courtroom and this trial will proceed. Establish order Sheriff. Right now."

Wheeler's men spread out around the saloon, their rifles cocked and threatening, but men continued to shout out questions and Deeks heard Mrs. Huber demanding that Deeks be heard. The sound of the pounding gavel made his head hurt, but he kept his eyes on Thurston, whose face was now dark with outrage. The man didn't like to lose control, especially to people he thought beneath him and he watched him talk vehemently into the judge's face, but was unable to hear what he was saying amid the loud complaints of the disgruntled crowd. The explosive sound of Wheeler's gun being fired into the ceiling silenced the restless crowd, the last man to speak being knocked unconscious to the floor by one of the deputies.

"I've heard enough," Judge Reeves said. "Get him on his feet, Sheriff, and remove the gag. I've come to a decision, and he's entitled to some last words."

A few people mumbled in protest, but their fear was too great and they finally stood quietly, waiting to hear the verdict. Mrs. Huber turned to look at him, and he could see her resignation and it mirrored his own. He had no illusions about the outcome, and quietly prepared himself as the judge took a drink of whiskey and looked him in the eye.

"Max Gentry..."

"Name's Martin Deeks," he said.

"What the hell?"

"If I'm gonna hang I might as well hang with my real name."

"Verdict is guilty, so hang you will, boy, whatever your name is," the judge growled, bringing down his gavel one last time.

Deeks saw the smug look of triumph on Thurston's face and he suddenly felt lightheaded and hung his head, not wanting to see the man gloat. His thoughts turned to Kenzie, feeling hollow and incredibly sad that the promise of a life with her in it would never happen. He realized for the first time that the Atwood's would feel a deep sense of loss at his death and that made him sorry, but filled him with gratefulness for the brief time he'd had with them. Joe would let the Arapaho know and he hoped Hand and Little Shield would lay stones on his grave and chant a death song in his honor.

"Wheeler? Will ya see that the Atwood's get my mare?" He asked softly. "She's been a good ol' girl. Deserves a nice place to live out her days."

"You have my word," the man said.

He handed the bag of caramels to Mrs. Huber as he passed by and she was wiping tears from her eyes, which surprised him, and she patted his arm gently before they led him out the door. The dirt was hot beneath his bare feet, reminding him of the last time he prepared himself to die. They were almost to the sheriff's office when one of Wheeler's deputies galloped up and jumped down to report, the smell of his sweat sour as dirt swirled around his feet.

"Riders comin' in fast," he said breathlessly. "'Bout two, maybe three miles north a here."

"What you want to do Thurston?" Wheeler turned to ask. "It don't give us much time to hang the bastard and get you outa here. Best you take off now, before they get here."

"And miss seeing this man suffer for his crime?" Thurston rasped in anger. "I will not be rushed. That is something I will not tolerate. We'll take him with us and deal with him in a more private setting. Someplace familiar, perhaps."

"They'll catch you," Deeks grinned cockily as they pulled him quickly toward the corral.

"Don't count on it, kid," Wheeler said. "Union Army never caught me and I don't intend to let nobody take me now. Mount up boys, and tie this sonofabitch to his saddle. Billy...take six men and hold 'em as long as you can."

"Cain't I go with you, sir?" Billy whined.

"You messed up last night, son," Wheeler said coldly. "Now do as I order."

Deeks watched Billy and the deputies ride out to lie in wait for whoever was coming, knowing it had to be Kenzie. He smiled softly to himself, realizing he was proud of her, but it was mixed with fear that she was riding into danger, and he had to try and warn her. When a deputy led his mare over, he shoved the man aside and vaulted into the saddle, reining the mare around to make a run for it. Sheila bolted forward, but Wheeler shouted for his men to cut him off and he didn't make it far before he was surrounded by milling horses and angry deputies pointing pistols at him and grabbing the reins.

"Stop or I'll shoot your mare," Wheeler shouted.

Deeks' anger flared at the cruel threat and it forced him to stop, raising his hands in surrender, knowing the man would do it if he continued. The sheriff rode up beside him and pressed the muzzle of his pistol into the base of his neck until his men had tied the manacles on his wrists to the saddle horn.

"You try that out on the trail and I'll kill your horse and leave you tied to her," he said coldly. "Ain't a good way to die."

"The way he's going to die is quite familiar to Mr. Gentry," Thurston said as he rode up to face him. "Only this time I intend to watch you struggle to the very end."

The backhand across the face seemed like an afterthought, and Deeks hung his head, not wanting the man to see the sudden fear in his eyes. His gut quivered at the haunting memories and he looked off toward the north as his hope faded that Kenzie would be in time to stop the bastard's plan.

"I know she's alive, Thurston." he finally said. "She beat the shit outa the sheriff's little weasel and got away. Now she's comin' for me."

"I'll deal with her after I'm finished with you," Thurston said confidently. "Do you really believe she's riding to your rescue like some warrior goddess out of mythology? She's just an ordinary woman, Gentry, granted a beautiful one, but nothing special. Why would she put herself in danger for the likes of you? And if she does come and she finally finds what's left of you, I doubt she'll have the stomach to take me on."

"You're wrong. There ain't nothing ordinary about her," Deeks said with a soft knowing smile. "She'll hunt you down and kill ya."

"Unfortunately, you won't be around to know one way or the other," he sneered.

"You two done?" Wheeler asked as he pulled on Sheila's lead rope. "We need to put some distance between us and those riders. Figure it's the two marshals who been lookin' for you."

Deeks saw the look of annoyance as Thurston took in the warning, and he found he believed that no matter what happened to him, those two lawmen would hunt Thurston till they found him, if Kenzie didn't get to him first. They were the most stubborn lawmen he'd ever come across, and he trusted that they would look out for Kenzie when he was gone and for that he was grateful.

He looked back one last time as Wheeler and his four remaining deputies led him past the scaffold where he was supposed to hang. He knew where they were taking him, and he knew what Thurston intended to do. He was determined to go down fighting and if he saw a chance to end the bastard's life he would take it, even if it cost him his own.

...

Callen shot a look at Sam as they rode on either side of MacKenzie, who continued to push her horse to the limit. The town was in view now and he was becoming cautious, uncertain as to how many men they might be facing. According to MacKenzie's count there could be a dozen men waiting for them.

"Slow it down," Callen yelled at her, trying to break through her determined focus.

"MacKenzie..." Sam shouted, angling his mount to bump against the weary red roan she was riding.

It was if she were in a world of her own, but she finally acknowledged them and slowed her horse to a canter before finally pulling the gelding to a stop.

"They know we're coming," Callen said. "Don't think they're gonna let us ride in without a fight."

"You thinking ambush?" Sam asked as he turned to see how far back the cavalry patrol was.

"There's a shallow gully up ahead," Kenzie said as she drank a bit of water from her canteen. "Be a good place to try and slow us down."

"Or take us out. I say we wait for the troopers and do an old fashioned cavalry charge," Sam said with a smile. "Bugler and all."

"You gettin' nostalgic on me Sam?" Callen asked, wiping some of the sweat from his face with his bandana.

"We can't wait too long," Kenzie insisted, and Callen could see how frightened she was behind her determination.

"Take it easy, girl," Sam said, trying to calm her.

"What if he's already dead?" She asked quietly as she stared at the low line of buildings in the distance.

Callen had no idea what to say that would ease her obvious fear. He had never known such a determined woman in his life. When he first got to know her, she'd been hardened by the murder of her parents, and by the things she'd seen and done in her life. Everything for her was either black or white, good or bad, no shading of gray, or forgiveness for a man's trespasses. She had cut no one any slack until she met Deeks. She had changed because of him, because of the injustice done to him, and now, a man she had once distrusted and tried to vilify, seemed to have become the most important person in her life. And he could see how afraid she was that she might lose him, and he felt for her.

"Nobody on the scaffold," Sam said as he peered through the spyglass he always carried. "Noose still hangin' high."

Callen heard MacKenzie gasp at the words, her trembling hand pressed over her mouth and he could tell how hard she was fighting to control her emotions. Even Sam sounded relieved and looked at him as he reached out and squeezed her shoulder. His own thoughts were filled with the need to get into that town and make sure Edward Thurston didn't carry out another injustice. Whether Deeks had burned Thurston out or not, he didn't want to see the kid hang.

He reined his horse around, grateful to hear the jingle of tack and spurs as the mounted patrol from Fort Steele crested the low rise behind them. Lieutenant Hayes and his sergeant, Mooney, signaled a halt and then joined the three of them to assess the situation.

"Miss Blye...Gentlemen," Hayes said cordially. "What's the holdup?"

Callen was pleased it was Hayes in charge of the ragged group of cavalrymen that waited behind him. Both he and Sergeant Mooney were seasoned veterans of the war, but the ten enlisted men making up the patrol were a ragtag mix of local boys, poor immigrants, and men down on their luck, with probably a few on the run from the law as well. They were tough though and Sergeant Mooney kept them in line, not opposed to knocking a man on his ass if he got out of line. Although frowned upon by the higher-ranking officers, Callen had seen Lieutenant Hayes turn a blind eye to his sergeant's methods, especially when they were out of sight of the fort.

"We're thinkin' that gully up ahead might hold a few surprises," Callen reported.

"You bring a bugler with you, sir?" Sam asked with a smile.

"You Buffalo Soldiers always did love a good cavalry charge," Mooney replied, his thick Irish accent coloring his teasing words.

"Bianchi, your talents are required," Lieutenant Hayes shouted, before turning back to Callen. "The men have been spoiling for a fight. Good way to shake off the boredom."

Callen and MacKenzie filled the right flank, with Sam next to the lieutenant, as the sergeant deployed his men in a skirmish line, rifles at the ready. They started out at a trot, eased into a canter and when the order was given, Private Bianchi blew a rough, but energetic cavalry charge and they all kicked their mounts into a full gallop, charging across the open ground. The men who had figured to ambush them, fired wildly, but quickly realized they were outnumbered and started to run and the one man left standing quickly surrendered. MacKenzie's roan leaped the gully and she raced toward town and Callen and Sam followed, not knowing what other dangers might be waiting for her. There was no stopping her now, and Callen began to have hope that they had come in time.

Townspeople were gathered in small groups in front of the saloon, but scattered as the three of them galloped up the main street. MacKenzie slowed when she saw a woman in a bright yellow bonnet, yanking her exhausted mount to a stop and jumping down to question her.

"Where is he?" She cried out. "Is he okay?"

"Oh Kenzie, You must hurry," the woman said. "They have taken him."

"What do you mean? Where?"

Callen gently pulled her away from the flustered woman, and Sam rushed into the saloon and came out with a man in a black frock coat, slurring out swear words and stumbling as Sam pulled him down the stairs.

"Mrs. Huber, please," Kenzie choked out. "Where is he?"

"In hell," the judge shouted, struggling to get away from Sam. "Sentenced the guilty bastard to hang."

"Who were the witnesses?" Callen demanded.

"Mr. Thurston. He swore it was Gentry who set the fire," the drunken judge said, looking indignant at being questioned.

"Did he testify that he saw him there?" Sam asked roughly.

"No...but it don't matter. Gentry confessed to Sheriff Wheeler," Judge Reeves replied arrogantly.

"Did you allow him to defend himself?" Callen growled, growing angry at the man's pigheadedness.

"Bastard said it was justified," he replied. "Started accusin' Mr. Thurston of shootin' people and burnin' out his neighbors, so he rightfully ordered him gagged. Ask me, that boy is a lyin' coward."

MacKenzie grabbed him by the lapels and would have hit him if Sam hadn't stopped her.

"I've got a federal warrant for Edward Thurston's arrest on just those charges," Callen said, disgusted with the man. "Deeks was a witness."

"Thurston told me it wouldn't be a fair trial," She shouted in the judge's face. "How much did he pay you, you good-for-nothin' drunken bastard?"

"How dare you address me like that," he said angrily, raising his fist to strike her.

Sam yanked him back before he could, and threw him to the ground. "Stay down or I'll throw you in jail."

"Mrs. Huber, is he all right?" MacKenzie whispered.

"He look very sad, but he smile when I give him caramels," she answered softly, taking Kenzie's hand and patting it. "When he try to talk at trial, Sheriff hit him with gun. Make people of town very angry, but they pointed guns at us, so we could do nothing."

"Did they say where they were takin' him, ma'am?" Sam asked.

"I do not know this. He try to escape, but they stop him," her accent thickening as she spoke. "Last we saw, they tie him on horse and ride east."

"How many men, ma'am?" Callen asked.

"Thurston, sheriff and four deputies," the woman reported firmly.

MacKenzie immediately headed toward the sheriff's office, followed quickly by Sam, leaving a trailing Callen feeling exasperated. He was afraid to voice his thoughts, but he knew Sam was thinking the same thing. Once they hit their trail, he feared they'd find Deeks hanging from a tree and he feared what that would do to the woman storming around the corral, saddling her big gray.

Lieutenant Hayes and his men finally rode up with the remains of Wheeler's men draped over the backs of their horses. Sergeant Mooney dragged the man who'd surrendered down off his horse and shoved him toward the jailhouse, the man whining that he was a deputy sheriff and Wheeler's right hand man.

"Thurston and Sheriff Wheeler took Deeks and headed east. We just don't know where for sure," Callen told the lieutenant. "There's six of 'em. Could use a few of your men to give chase with us."

"I was there when Miss Blye was brought to Fort Steel," Lieutenant Hayes replied softly. "I'd like to be there when you catch that nasty sonofabitch. Like to give him a taste of the end of a whip. Sergeant Mooney can take care of things here with half the men."

"Be a pleasure to have ya Lieutenant," Callen said, shaking the man's hand.

"We goin' or what?" MacKenzie asked, mounted and looking anxious before she turned her horse east and started looking for sign.

"Sam, were headin' out," Callen yelled inside, startled by the look on his face when he came outside.

"That place is a hell hole, G. Wheeler's man said Deeks was chained up in there all night." Sam said with revulsion. "Thurston came in this mornin'. Taunted him and beat 'im. G, he told him he'd strangled MacKenzie to death."

"Sonofabitch."

"We're dealing with a sick bastard, Marshal," Hayes commented.

"He wants him to suffer...it's why he told him MacKenzie was dead," Callen said, finally understanding. "He's not gonna hang 'im, Sam. He's gonna take him back to where he left him for dead, only this time he's gonna make sure he doesn't survive."

...

The pace of the ride was hard and relentless, but he took solace in the fact that Thurston was running. Those marshals had been hunting him, just as they said they would, and the bastard was afraid. It made Deeks smile, if only to himself. He was exhausted, his body aching as they skirted rocky cliffs and wove their way through a series of deep gullies, the landscape growing harsh, the pale, high plateau of his nightmares looming in the distance. He was finding it difficult to focus on any one thing, his thoughts leaping and tumbling over the people and places that now meant so much to him. His hope of rescue had faded the longer they rode, Wheeler constantly sending scouts back along their trail to see if anyone was following. Each shake of a scout's head drummed defeat into his mind, and he tried to concentrate on how to get his hands on Thurston. Those thoughts would dissipate whenever a familiar part of the landscape appeared, replaced by memories of his time here and of the people who would mourn his loss. The thought that there were people who would grieve for him was a comfort. It made him feel less alone. Each person's face passed through his mind, finally lingering on Kenzie, his heart tightening in his chest. He was still amazed by her, still grateful for the few days and intimate moments they had shared. He let it sustain him as their progress slowed, and Thurston finally called a halt to the merciless pace.

"Look familiar, Gentry?" Thurston asked, as he rode back to face him.

Deeks stared back at him without expression, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing the fear he secretly harbored. The man's eyes turned cunning and dark, making his gut quiver, wondering what the man was thinking.

"The Atwood Ranch is south of here, isn't it Mr. Gentry?" He asked as he looked down along the winding rivulet that would empty into Little Jack Creek. "I think it would make a fine base of operations while I rebuild my ranch, don't you think? Of course that would mean the current residents would have to be dispossessed, but I don't think that will be very difficult for Wheeler's men. I believe there is only a woman and an old man there at the moment, unless of course Gus has taken care of them already."

Deeks sat breathless as the man spoke, his mouth dry and his heart racing, searching for any words that might make the man relent, but he knew there were none.

"Please don't hurt them," he could only weakly plead for their lives, and that enraged him.

"Good God. You actually care about those people," Thurston looked surprised, but he laughed. "It always amazed me that they would protect an ill-bred stray like you. One never gets used to common people."

"Josie Atwood is a good woman," Deeks choked out. "She's a kind soul. She doesn't deserve to die. You don't have to do this."

"You forget, Mr. Gentry. I do what I want and no one stands in my way," he said coldly.

"Wheeler, you can stop this," Deeks turned to stare at the man. "They're innocent people."

"They have some remarkable horses, Wheeler," Thurston remarked unconcerned. "I'm sure you'll find one to your liking."

"I'll send Boone on down with the boys. They'll get it done. Get the place ready for ya," Wheeler said, his eyes remorseless as he looked unblinking back at Deeks.

The roar of outrage that tore from his throat silenced the birds and Sheila jumped, jerking her head up as Deeks kicked her into a gallop, tearing the lead rope from the hand of the man who held it. His mad dash down toward the ranch was crazy, but all he could think of was saving Josie, oblivious to the angry shouts and curses that erupted behind him. They were on him before he got too far, one rider cutting in front of him, forcing Sheila to stop while another grabbed for the reins, pulling his mare around and yanking roughly on the bit. Wheeler rode up beside him, cursing as he whipped his heavy pistol down across the back of his neck, and Deeks slumped in the saddle, completely defeated and crushed with sorrow.

"I warned you," Wheeler growled. "I'd just as soon shoot your horse and leave ya here, but Mr. Thurston has other plans. Don't mean you get off without punishment. If one of my slaves tried to run away, I'd lame 'im. Didn't run very far or very fast after that."

Wheeler pressed the muzzle of his pistol behind Deeks' calf and fired. He screamed as Sheila leaped sideways almost unseating the man on the horse next to her. Collapsing over his mare's neck, he fought to stay conscious as Wheeler ordered his men to tie his feet to the stirrups. His tears were for Josie, but a blinding rage blackened his heart as he struggled to endure the pain and mind numbing despair until he finally passed out.

...

She had no idea how far ahead they were, but she kept pushing her gray hard when she was sure of the trail. She longed to see him, but never let her mind linger on him for long, it made it too hard to concentrate on finding him. Wheeler was good at eluding them, backtracking and cutting down the creeks, making them spend valuable time searching for their trail. She felt the tension growing among the men with her, especially Callen and Sam. Whenever they had to stop, she saw that silent communication they shared, their usually unemotional faces now drawn tight with anger and frustration. She thought they had come to admire Deeks, which she knew would surprise him if he ever had a chance to find out. Just that thought touched her deeply, and sudden tears clouded her eyes.

"Kenzie!"

Callen yelled her name far down the creek, and his use of that nickname shook her. Both men had used it on this ride and she was not sure she liked that because it was so much a part of her connection to Deeks. Now they had found the trail again, but when she joined them, their expressions shook her.

"There's blood," Sam told her softly.

"How much?" She snapped the question out angrily as she swung down beside Callen as he studied the ground.

"Enough to weaken him," Callen replied a little testily. "But it'll help us track 'em."

"Why would they shoot him?" Lieutenant Hayes asked.

"Cause he can be cantankerous and a little crazy," Sam replied, sobering when Kenzie glared at him.

Sam turned his horse and quickly picked up the blood trail, followed by the troopers and the lieutenant, but Callen grabbed her arm before she could mount, his expression soft and kind and it made her so angry she wanted to hit him.

"Don't look at me like that," she said as she shoved past him and mounted her gray.

"Guess I'm just worried about you," he replied, too kindly for her taste.

"I'm not the one bleedin'," she snapped and urged her horse past him, quickly catching up with Sam, who had stopped again.

"They split up," Lieutenant Hayes said.

"Why would they do that?" She asked as she looked down at the small stream of runoff.

"The Atwood place is down that way," Callen said, his jaw flexing with anger. "And Thurston wants it. He won't care who gets in his way."

"Josie and Coot are the only ones there," her voice trembling with fear for them.

"My men and I will go," Lieutenant Hayes said firmly. "You find that young man and shoot that bastard."

"Yes sir," Sam said with a quick salute. "Those are my kinda orders, sir."

As she turned her horse to face the trail ahead, she couldn't keep her eyes from the plateau rising up starkly on the horizon and she shivered, her memories crowding out the hope she wanted so desperately to hold on to.

...

He woke when Sheila snorted and scrambled to catch her footing on a steep slope. Waiting for his dizziness to clear, he kept his head down as he endured the fiery pain pulsing in his leg. He could see that his lower leg and bare foot were slick with blood that dripped slowly, spotting the pale, dusty ground as they crested the edge of the plateau. It was a place of nightmares, a place where his hope had withered with each bloody step and now his blood marked this ground again, but this time he had no hope, just a dark need for vengeance.

Their pace picked up and he groaned as the saddle horn jabbed into his chest each time Sheila's hooves struck the hard ground, so he forced himself upright. Thurston rode just ahead leading his mare, while Wheeler kept watch at the rear, and he gasped out a ragged breath as his thoughts of Josie and Coot roared through his head.

"Looks like he's awake," Wheeler called out.

Thurston turned his horse, stopping in front of Sheila who groaned and lowered her head as he let go of the lead rope. Deeks saw the hatred in his eyes, and bit his blistered lip, watching wearily as the man took his time and drank deeply from his canteen.

"How long since you've had water, Gentry?"

"How long you been a sonofabitch?" He mumbled, before dropping his head to muster his strength.

Wheeler was standing beside him when he said it, and slammed his fist down on his leg and he muffled a scream as best he could as he sagged in the saddle. The man untied his foot from the stirrup and then ducked under his mare's neck and untied the other one, and finally came around and pulled a large hunting knife to cut the rope that tied his manacled hands to the saddle horn. Deeks watched his every moved with half closed eyes, and when the man pulled him down from Sheila's back, he had to hold tightly onto the saddle until he was sure he could stand.

"You know what's coming don't you Mr. Gentry?" Thurston gloated as he climbed down from his horse.

He didn't reply, simply watched as the man slowly and purposefully undid the lariat from his saddle. Neither man seemed to think he was a threat, as he leaned weakly against his mare.

"What? No fight left?" Thurston asked as he approached, brushing the lariat across his chest. "Ready to yield so soon?"

"You ain't worth the effort," Deeks whispered.

"I'm disappointed Mr. Gentry," he said, growing testy. "And you know how I hate to be disappointed."

He slapped the coiled rope across his face and he almost lost his footing, pressing his face into the saddle as Thurston grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him close.

"No stopping this time, my little guttersnipe," he snarled into his ear, "no chance to catch your breath, no time to yield, because I don't care anymore whether you yield or not. I intend to watch Wheeler drag you all over this desolate place until there is nothing left of you. If that little whore should ever find you, she won't recognize you. Your own mother wouldn't recognize you when I'm done. You ruined my plans, Mr. Gentry, but not anymore. After today, no one will even remember your name."

The man shoved away from him and walked back toward his horse, breathing heavily from his rant. Wheeler stepped in front of him to follow, holding his hand out to Thurston for the lariat, and Deeks jerked the hunting knife from the sheath behind the sheriff's back and rammed it up under his ribs, and then again, grabbing his collar and yanking him back into the thrust. The man groaned in surprise and struggled briefly as blood gushed from his side, coating the knife and Deeks' hand. As Wheeler fell to his knees, Deeks released the knife and pulled the man's gun, pointing it at Thurston before he could make a move. Stepping over the dead man where he fell, he fired at the feet of Thurston's horse, sending the animal racing away and leaving his owner all alone.

"Gonna make another speech?" Deeks asked as he limped toward the man. "Or do you just wanna yield?"

"We can make a deal, Gentry," the words rushed out of Thurston's mouth as he backed away, his hands reaching out in supplication.

"You ain't got nothing I want, Thurston" he replied softly, feeling so very tired.

"I have money," he said, smiling as if he'd found the solution. "You can buy whatever your heart desires."

"That woman you sent those men to kill? She cared about me. Told me she loved me like a son. Money can't buy that."

"You have principles, remember?" Thurston whined. "You're not a killer."

"You sure about that?" Deeks said, wavering slightly, knowing he had to decide before he passed out.

"I'm unarmed," the words came out as a whimper, and Deeks realized he didn't care what happened to the man.

"You really ain't worth killin'," he said wearily. "Guess I'll leave ya to the law after all."

Deeks needed to get to the ranch. His deep need to get to Josie was overwhelming, and he stumbled back toward his mare, his energy fading fast. Sheila snorted and stamped nervously and he turned to see Thurston charging toward him, his face contorted in rage. He barely had time to raise the gun, but he fired, the bullet tearing into Thurston's leg, just above the knee, his high screams spooking Wheeler's horse. Deeks grabbed for his saddle horn as his vision clouded, barely holding on as Thurston writhed on the ground, screaming bitter curses that drifted and died in the empty landscape. He watched for a few minutes before pulling himself up into the saddle, gripping a handful of Sheila's mane as he steadied himself, no longer interested in the pathetic raging of the wounded man. The two men stared at each other as Deeks urged Sheila past where he lay panting on the rocky ground.

"You can't leave me here," Thurston snarled desperately. "I'm a baron of noble birth."

"That don't matter much out here," Deeks said, and turned Sheila toward home.

...

...


	26. Chapter 26

**Yesterday's Fire**

_Chapter 26_

...

They spotted the sorrel far off, standing alone in the shallow meandering stream ahead of them, his white stocking feet and nose deep in the cold water, and his reins loose and dragging. Sam hushed the others and pulled his spyglass and scanned the willows and trees along the bank, shaking his head when he spotted no one. Kenzie was anxious, her fear high since hearing the distant sound of gunfire, but a sharp look from Callen kept her from charging forward, knowing he was right to be cautious.

"That's Wheeler's horse," she whispered to Callen.

The birch trees they'd just ridden through gave them some cover, all of them savvy about the need for surprise. Sam motioned that he was moving off to the right to scout, and Callen indicated he was going left to do the same, which left Kenzie watching for any movement that might endanger them. Getting off her gray, she tied him up and slipped her rifle free of the scabbard, taking up position beside one of the older trees and watching for any sign of the men who had Deeks. The muscles in her neck and shoulders were knotted with tension, the gunshots having frightened her badly, and she wanted so desperately to find him. Had he tried to escape? Had they shot him down for it? Her thoughts wouldn't stay still, her mind full of disturbing images of when she'd found him the last time. But the gunshots had been a while ago and had seemed to come from high up on the plateau that now loomed over them, and it confused her to find Wheeler's horse here, adding to her anxiety.

She had been so determined to find him it had driven most of her personal thoughts from her mind, but now she found it hard to breathe as she waited. A light gust of wind made the leaves tremble around her and she couldn't help but think of her time with him, remembering the comfort she had found in his arms as they lay among the birch trees at the ranch. She could almost feel the caress of his fingers on her cheek and how it felt when he toyed with her hair, a feeling of serenity settling over her whenever he held her. She never tired of watching his eyes as he looked at her, the change in color, the expressive depth in them when he made love to her, or the way they brightened when he laughed. The thought of never kissing him or touching him again, of not being able to run her hands over his lithe body, to feel his muscles moving beneath her made her feel bereft, the loss too much to bear. She had fought her need for him for so long, fearing some sort of loss of control. She'd thought she wanted nothing to do with him, her anger ruling every thought, but now she had to face the possibility that he had been taken from her forever and now it was that fear she fought against.

Callen's signal had her quickly wiping at her tears, as she saw Sam leading the horse out of the creek. Untying her gray, she led him toward where they waited, using the time to control her emotions, to focus on the meaning of the loose, rider less horse.

"No sign of anyone," Callen said softly. "Sam's backtracking the sorrel."

She mounted without a word and followed him as they moved toward the low hills below the plateau, the land rising toward the desolate land above them. Thick stands of birch and alder masked the trail up, split by glades of sparse grasses moving slowly in the warm breeze. A part of her wanted nothing more than to race her gray up to the crest of the plateau as fast as he could carry her, but the other part was afraid of what she might find. She had always charged through life, and being tentative now surprised her, but she couldn't deny her fear and Callen seemed to sense it, watching her as they climbed higher.

"G."

Sam had pulled up and pointed ahead to the far end of a long stand of birch trees. Another lone horse stood watching them. The animal tossed its head a couple of times before looking back and turning, slowly walking in a tight circle until they could see the burden it carried.

"Deeks!"

She screamed his name as she kicked her gray into a mad dash to reach him. Callen raced beside her on one side and Sam on the other. The mare didn't move, simply waited for them, snorting almost indignantly when they reached her. Deeks hung limply against the side of his mare, the chain between the manacles looped over the saddle horn and his knees sagging almost to the ground. Blood soaked his lower left leg and foot, and Kenzie felt white hot anger as she leaped from her horse, but suddenly became tentative again as she started towards him, fear taking her breath away. Gathering herself, she reach for him, brushing the tangled mess of hair from his face, now streaked with dirt and sweat, instantly relieved when she felt the warmth of his skin. Sam pressed in and lifted him enough for Callen to pull his hands free and then they lowered him to the ground. She sank down next to him and pulled him to her, cradling his head in the crook of her arm as she stroked his cheek, trying to get him to wake. He moaned softly when Callen held a canteen to his lips, the small amount of water he took in reviving him a bit, even though most of it spilled down his chin. When Sam tried to tend to the wound in his leg, he shuddered and woke, gasping out a breath, his eyes wild until she spoke his name.

"Deeks, it's me," she said as she pulled him back into her arms.

"Kenzie? Hey...thanks for the caramels," he said weakly.

He smiled softly up at her before he became agitated, panic darkening his eyes and he struggled to get to his feet. "They're gonna kill Josie. I gotta stop 'em."

"Cavalry is headin' there now," Callen assured him, holding him down until he stopped resisting.

"The cavalry?" He asked, wincing as Sam ripped his pant leg open to get to the gunshot wound.

"They came to help us make sure Thurston didn't hang you," Callen said.

He stared at Callen, looking bewildered by his comment, and then glanced up at Kenzie for confirmation.

"We found Wheeler's sorrel," Callen said. "From what Kenzie told us, he don't seem like the kind of man to lose his horse."

Deeks let out a long sigh and looked away, slumping limply in Kenzie's arms.

"I killed him with his own knife," he said quietly.

"And Thurston?" Sam asked.

"He's up there," Deeks said raising his hands weakly, gesturing toward the pale plateau.

"You killed 'em both?" Callen looked surprised and so did Sam.

"No...No. Shot 'im in the leg when he came at me," he murmured, finally looking up at Callen. "I left him there. For you. Had to get to Josie."

"Well, I'll be damned," Callen said and stared at Sam.

"I need to make sure Josie's okay," Deeks said. "Let me do that and I'll go along peaceful. No trouble."

"You think we're gonna arrest you?" Callen asked.

"I killed the sheriff. Spect that's a hangin' offense," he replied with resignation. "Don't matter. One more death sentence won't make no difference."

"Can't hang ya, kid. I need you as a witness like I said before," Callen said with a smirk. "Got a warrant for Thurston's arrest. The next trial you go to will be his, if you're finally willin' to testify."

"You're not gonna arrest me?" He asked, looking from one to the other.

"No...we ain't," Sam replied.

"But I killed Sheriff Wheeler," he replied roughly, his eyes dark with disbelief.

"We figure you were fightin' for your life," Sam said. "Ain't that right?"

"Yeah...but what about the fire at Thurston's ranch?"

"I think he wants to be arrested, Sam," Callen said.

"Told ya he was cantankerous," he replied, yanking his bandana down tight over the bloody leg wound.

"Sam!" Kenzie snapped when Deeks cried out.

"What? He's still bleedin'," Sam replied sharply.

Callen knelt beside him and offered the canteen again, and Deeks muttered a thank you and began to drink.

"Go easy, kid," Callen said gently, finally wrenching it away.

"Can I go to the Atwood's now?" He asked wearily. "I gotta know if she's still alive. Won't know what ta tell George and Joe if she ain't. Don't know exactly how I'll live with it either."

Sam squeezed his good leg, giving him a long look as Callen offered him a hand up. He clasped it with both of his, finally managing to get to his feet with their help, swaying a little and leaning against Kenzie. His closeness made her heart quicken and she let out a long relieved breath and wrapped a strong arm around him, holding him against her until the marshals helped him up into the saddle. She'd felt his muscles quiver when she held him, and could see how weak he was as one hand gripped the pommel while bracing himself with the other on the neck of his sturdy mare.

"You sure you can stay on all the way to the Atwood's?" Callen asked, looking doubtful.

"Made it this far didn't I?" He said, sounding surly and breathless.

"Yeah and how long did that mare of yours drag you after you passed out?" Sam asked, sounding a bit testy himself.

"If I ain't under arrest I'm leavin'," Deeks said, and turned Sheila toward the trail down the mountain.

"You gonna be able to get him back up if he falls off again?" Callen asked Kenzie, who was surprised at both men's growing concern.

"He's lost a lot of blood, but he's too damn stubborn to stop," Sam said as they all watched him struggle to stay in the saddle when he kicked Sheila into a slow lope.

"One of us should go with you, Kenzie," Callen said. "If Thurston's wounded, he won't be any trouble for Sam."

"Why do I have to be the one to go get the bastard?" Sam asked, his exasperation making Kenzie smile as she mounted her gray and swung him around to follow Deeks.

"You two better hurry and decide," she yelled back. "Cause he's not waitin' for any of us."

"That's a pretty rough trail back down," Sam said. "Could hurt himself if he fell. Might lose our witness."

"Thurston won't get too far with a bullet in his leg," Callen reasoned as he mounted up. "It'll still be daylight by the time we get back."

"It'll serve him right anyway, seeing as what he did to Deeks up there last time," Sam said as he kicked his horse into line with Callen.

"Seems justified to leave 'im," Callen said. "Just for awhile."

"Let's go see if the kid fell off yet," Sam said as he urged his horse into a gallop.

"Wanna bet on that?" Callen asked.

"I'll take that bet."

"You sure?" Callen pestered. "Remember...you said it yourself. He's cantankerous."

"That bullet was fired right against his leg, G," Sam said quietly.

"And he still managed to take down the bastards," Callen said, shaking his head.

"He's damn tough," Sam agreed.

"Sounds like you're startin' to admire 'im," Callen smirked.

Sam shrugged and smiled. "Still think he's gonna fall off his horse."

...

Deeks had just caught another look from Callen when a rafter of turkeys flushed across the path of the horses making Kenzie's gray stumble into Sheila. Knocked off-balance, he would have fallen from the saddle if Marshal Hanna hadn't grabbed ahold of his shoulder and righted him, holding him on as they all got control of their horses. He was startled more by the lawman's actions than by the sudden disruption.

"You good?" Hanna asked, looking down at his leg with a critical eye.

"Yeah. Much obliged, Marshal," Deeks replied.

He'd kept his pain to himself on the trail, but a fall would have done him in, and been an embarrassment that he didn't want, especially in front of Kenzie.

"You coulda won your bet, Sam," Callen smirked, before drinking deeply from his canteen.

Deeks looked from one to the other, and was surprised to see the irritation on Marshal Hanna's face.

"You bet I'd fall off my horse?" Deeks asked, unsure whether it should make him angry or make him laugh, but he couldn't hold back a cocky grin.

"We're close now. Lettin' you fall would have slowed us up," Sam replied, shrugging as if it were unimportant.

Deeks mood darkened as he thought of what might be waiting for him at the ranch, and his smile dropped away as he urged his mare forward. Sam eased his horse in front to block him and when he looked at the man, he saw understanding and kindness, and it caught him off guard.

"Take some water first," Hanna said and offered him his canteen. "You been pushin' plenty hard and you ain't lookin' so good."

"Sorry you lost your bet," Deeks said after taking a drink.

"No you're not," Hanna laughed. "Callen is happy though. I gotta buy 'im a steak when we get back to Saratoga."

Deeks didn't reply, his urgency to get to the ranch still foremost in his mind. The others sensed it, especially Kenzie, who seemed almost as anxious as he was to get moving again.

"Keep an eye out now," Callen said as he led the way forward. "Lt. Hayes is a veteran. He woulda put out pickets. Hate to get shot by one of our own boys."

It wasn't long before the landscape became familiar, and along with it came a deep dread that caused Deeks more pain than he thought possible. It was if his heart was aching, and his limbs felt heavy as he tried to catch his breath, knowing he never would again if Josie had been killed. She had showed him so much kindness and his eyes filled with tears as he remembered the hugs she so generously gave him. He'd gotten such comfort from them and that was still a marvel to him. She was just a tiny thing, but strong and full of spirit and courage. How would George go on without her? And even though he knew what it felt like to lose your mother, he had no idea what he would say to Joe. Was the ranch even a home without her? Just the idea of it was staggering.

"Josie's tough," Kenzie said softly as she rode up close beside him.

"Gentle too," he replied, choking on the words.

He couldn't wait to know any longer, kicking Sheila hard, urging her to run. He quickly raced ahead of the others, crossing the shallows of the familiar creek and turning down the path to the meadow. As he rounded the edge of the birches, Callen was suddenly beside him, shielding him from a trooper he hadn't noticed who had edged his horse out of the trees, his rifle pointed and ready to fire.

"U.S. Marshal. Don't shoot," he yelled, his hand raised toward the man.

Deeks felt a brief flash of fear, but he saw the trooper lower his weapon as he raced past him, ignoring the curses of the marshal as he galloped into the meadow. More troopers were standing along the fence and he knew he should slow down, but he saw a body on the ground and all other thoughts vanished.

"Josie!"

Shouting her name, he thundered toward the gate, barely holding on, his strength ebbing badly. He saw him just as he began to slide from the saddle, and Sheila slowed of her own accord, turning in a circle as he grasped at her mane. George caught him as he fell, easing him to the ground as he yelled for Joe.

"Easy, son," he said.

"Josie? Is she okay George? Did they hurt her?" Grabbing his shirt, desperate to know.

"She's fine, son," George assured him calmly. "We surprised the bastards Thurston sent."

"They sure as hell weren't expectin' nobody to fight back," Joe said as he knelt beside him. "Mama and Coot already had that Gus fella tied up in the barn when we got here last night."

"They didn't hurt 'er?" Not quite able to believe what they were saying.

"She's okay, but mad as the devil. Mighty worried about you," George said as the marshals and Kenzie surrounded them. "Lieutenant Hayes told us what happened."

"Not all of it," Callen said, looking exasperated as he stared down at Deeks.

"You don't know nothin' about following orders do you?" Sam stormed. "That trooper almost shot you."

"You quit yellin' at him," Josie said as she pushed between the two lawmen. "Can't you see he's wounded?"

"Yes ma'am," Sam replied. "Tell him that. He's the one seems to forget. Already fell off his horse once."

"Thought you said you never fall off your horse, brother," Joe laughed as he and George pulled him to his feet.

"Mighta lied about that," he said with a tired smile, feeling lighter now that he was surrounded by the people he cared about.

"I was so afraid for you, Marty," Josie said softly.

She quickly brushed at the tears on her cheeks as she stared at him, her hands nervously touching his and frowning at the heavy iron manacles that still dragged at his wrists. She patted his chest and smiled, finally reaching up to gently touch his face before she wrapped him in a hug.

"I was scared they killed you," he whispered, the weight of all that had happened causing him to sag wearily in her arms.

"George..." She said quickly and he felt strong hands holding him up.

Joe helped his father as they slowly walked him toward the house, pausing when they passed the troopers tying the bodies of Wheeler's deputies over the backs of their horses. He felt no sympathy for the men. They hadn't even questioned their orders, but had come here willingly with murder in their hearts. So he turned away, gingerly limping up the few steps and stopping on the porch to look out over the place that offered so much comfort and had become a haven for him. He'd almost lost that, and he reminded himself to appreciate every day he spent here.

"Good to see they didn't hang you, Mr. Deeks," Lieutenant Hayes said as he joined the circle. "I wanted to meet the man who rescued Miss Blye. She spoke highly of you."

"Can't really shake your hand proper with these on," Deeks replied as he held up his manacled hands. "But I wanna thank you for comin' to help Josie."

"Your family had it all well in hand by the time we got here. And one of my men might be able to help you with those," Hayes said. "Claims to have escaped from prison in France a couple of times. Good at picking locks, apparently. Laroche, you're needed."

The Frenchman made quick work of the manacles, even though he was eyeing Kenzie most of the time, who hovered close by, looking more impatient then he'd ever seen her. Deeks couldn't fault him for his interest in her, admiring her himself, and still amazed that he had survived and that they were together again. Josie fussed over the bruised raw skin around his wrists, asking him questions and worrying over him, making it hard to keep from smiling. He stood numbly happy as they talked and moved around him, silently staring at each one in turn, trying to convince himself that this was all real.

He was terribly tired and heard Sam telling George that he'd lost a lot of blood, wondering why and how the man had come to care what was happening with him. Callen simply watched him, but he wasn't sure why and couldn't figure what he was thinking. He'd been surprised when the marshals had caught up with them, leaving Thurston to fend for himself, and that brought back all the terrors the man had caused him. He seemed to lose focus all at once and the sound of everyone's voices became muted and distant as painful images clouded his mind. He stared down at what remained of the bloodstains on his hands, his fingernails choked almost black with the sheriff's last moments. It had happened so quickly and he'd had no time to consider what he was doing, he'd just acted, unwilling to submit to what the men had planned. He remembered the feeling of rage he'd felt when Thurston hit him with the lariat, his determination to resist overpowering. Wheeler had made the mistake of underestimating him, thinking him too badly hurt to fight back, believing they'd terrorized him into submission, and the sheriff had paid for it with his life. Now he just longed to wash the man's blood from his trembling hands, finding it hard to remain standing, his leg almost numb and unable to bear much of his weight.

"Why did Thurston shoot you like that?" Sam's soft voice close beside him, cutting through the fog he was experiencing.

"Wheeler did it after I tried to escape and warn Josie," he mumbled. "Told me he used to do it to his slaves to punish 'em for runnin' away."

He could almost feel the big black man go rigid beside him, his eyes full of deadly anger, and he wondered what the marshal would do to Wheeler if he were still alive.

"Man got what he deserved then," Sam said roughly.

"Thanks for savin' my boy," George said as he came up behind the two marshals.

"We didn't," Callen told him, still watching him intently. "He saved himself."

"What happened to that bastard Thurston?" Joe asked, looking at him and then the marshals.

"Spendin' some time alone tryin' to figure how Deeks got the best of 'im," Callen smirked.

"He's gonna be real happy to see us when we go back to get 'im," Sam said.

"Where the hell is he?" Joe demanded.

"I left him where he left me," Deeks said quietly as Kenzie stepped up and took his hand.

The Atwoods turned to stare at him, and he could see the questions in their eyes, but he didn't want to talk anymore. He was too tired and growing dizzy from the pain. He saw Kenzie and Josie share a look and then they were on either side of him, guiding him into the solitude of the house and away from the questions about a man he just wanted to forget. He was limping badly as they led him to the daybed by the fireplace, and moaned softly as he sank down on the familiar bed. Kenzie pushed a strand of hair from his eyes and he leaned his head against her, wrapping his arms around her as she pulled him close.

"Best lie down now," Josie urged softly. "Let me clean and stitch that wound. It looks bad."

He stretched out on the bed, letting the two women tend him as they had done before, only this time he was conscious and could watch them. Josie was focused and he smiled softly when her brow furrowed in concentration as she washed the blood from his hands and bandaged his wrists, patting his arm gently when she finished. This time he was able to watch Kenzie's determination as she cleaned away the grime that coated his face, her eyes dark and shimmering with a glaze of tears whenever she looked at him.

"Don't cry, Sweetness," he whispered. "I want you to be happy."

"I am happy," she said as a tear spilled over. "I just don't know how to stop being afraid for you."

"I'm safe now. I'm home, Kenzie," he said, his smile widening as he mouthed the words he never thought he'd say. "And I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you."

"You saved each other," Josie said, sitting down beside him with her kit in her hands. "That's a strong bond. A loving bond. Forged in hard times. Now you need to learn about yourselves when no one's tryin' to kill you."

"Not sure I know what that feels like, but I'm willin' to give it a try," Deeks said quietly. "How 'bout you, Sweetness?"

"Sounds good right now," Kenzie replied, letting out a weary sigh.

"Better hold onto her, Marty. I'm about to clean this nasty looking bullet wound," Josie warned.

He rode out what he thought was the worst of it, never taking his eyes off Kenzie as she held his hands. When Josie poured whiskey over the open wound, the fiery pain shocked him, taking his breath away, and his vision faded. When he opened his eyes, Joe was gripping his shoulder and George stood behind Josie with his hands on her shoulders as she finished bandaging the wound.

"You fainted again," Kenzie said, biting at her lip.

"I told you before, men don't faint," he protested.

"Ya screamed again, too. Nearly spooked all the soldier boys' horses," Joe said.

"They gone?" Deeks asked.

"Takin' the deputies' bodies back to town, along with Gus," Joe replied.

"Was it bad?" He asked, looking steadily at George, who's face betrayed the anger he still held.

"They were stupid," Joe answered.

"Thought the two of 'em were in the house," George said gruffly. "Yelled for Josie to come out. Had their rifles pointed at the door."

"We were all in the barn," Joe said. "Tryin' to get that Gus fella to tell us why he pulled a gun on Coot last night."

"I hit 'im in the head with a shovel before he could fire," Josie said as if it were nothing.

"Where is Coot?" Kenzie asked, both of them realizing they hadn't seen the old man.

"Headed home early this mornin'," George said. "Didn't figure he was needed once we was back and had Gus tied up."

"Thurston wanted to use your place while he rebuilt his ranch," Deeks said, still angry. "If you hadn't gotten home last night..."

"Time to look ahead, son," George said. "And be thankful we're all alive and together again."

"And that Thurston won't be bothering you no more," Marshal Callen said as he stepped inside.

"Think he's still alive?" Deeks asked, unable to mask his concern over what it would mean if the man died.

"Won't let it come back on you if he ain't," Sam Hanna said, leaving Deeks confused and full of questions he didn't know how to ask.

"We're about to head up there and find out," Callen said. "Before we go, can I talk to Deeks alone?"

The Atwoods headed back outside to give them some privacy, but Kenzie stayed by his side, eyeing the two marshals defiantly as she entwined her fingers with his.

"I think she's stayin'," Deeks smiled over at her, and then blinked sleepily at Callen, unsure what was coming. "Now say what ya gotta say."

"Wasn't sure about you when we first met," Callen said. "Figured you'd be trouble somewhere down the road."

"That weren't far wrong," Sam said, but he was smiling.

"Thought I mighta had to face you in a gunfight," Callen continued.

"You'd a lost," Deeks said quietly.

"You sure about that?" Callen replied evenly.

"Yeah, I am."

"Cocky and cantankerous," Sam huffed out.

"No need to find out now," Callen said easily. "You come out on the right side of the law, kid. Foiled Thurston's plans and survived whatever he threw at you. You looked out for people. Fought for 'em."

"And you saved Kenzie's life," Sam added.

"That why you been so nice to me?"

"She's important to us," Callen said. "Started thinkin' differently about you after that."

"Me too," Kenzie said softly and pulled his hand into her lap.

"What's this really about?" Deeks asked, still a bit uneasy around the men.

"I know you don't trust lawmen much, and I don't blame ya after what Wheeler just did to you," Callen said. "But I think you'd make a good one."

"A lawman? Ya want me to put on a badge?" Deeks sputtered, and simply stared at the man, completely thunderstruck by the idea.

"Saratoga Springs is gonna need a new sheriff, and I'd be happy to put in a good word for you," Callen said quickly.

"You're serious," Deeks finally said.

"Think about it," the marshal replied. "Heal up and testify against Thurston at his trial and you'll see that the law does get it right most times."

"Unless the judge gets paid off, or is a drunken ol' reprobate..." Deeks replied with disgust.

"The law needs honest men, Deeks," Sam said. "Tips the scales to the good guys."

"Thought you had the notion I was a bad guy," Deeks said.

"I mighta been mistaken about that," Callen confessed.

"Never thought I'd hear a lawman admit he was wrong," Deeks said, starting to smile and warming to the praise they offered.

"Most of the time, we ain't," Sam said, sounding a little surly.

"Sam thinks he's right all the time," Callen laughed.

"We were all wrong about you Deeks," Kenzie said. "Me most of all."

"You think I'd make a good sheriff?" Deeks asked her with a lop-sided grin.

"Yeah, but I thought you wanted to stick around here?" Kenzie looked openly curious and it made him realize he had a lot to think about.

"Kenzie's right. Guess I ain't quite ready to make that decision just yet," Deeks said as he searched Callen's face for his reaction. "Not sure what I'm gonna do. You sure I ain't gonna be charged if you find Thurston dead up there?"

"You have my word," Callen replied.

"Weren't a hard choice to leave 'im," Sam added. "There's all kinds of justice. Some just takes longer than others."

Deeks was growing quite tired and Kenzie realized it and stood to shield him from the marshals. She walked them out as they argued over who had won their bet, his mind jumbled with everything that had happened and with the decisions he was facing. Those marshals had made the choice to back him, to make sure he stayed free and it felt good to have them on his side.

He'd made his own choice up on that plateau, letting Thurston live despite all the pain he'd caused. He had been sorely tempted, and it would have been easy, to just shoot the sonofabitch and leave him for the buzzards. Up there, holding that gun on him and seeing the hatred in the man's eyes almost made him pull the trigger, but he hadn't. Now he realized it was because he had changed. He wasn't the same man he'd been when Thurston had taken him the first time. The people he'd come to know, Kenzie, the Atwoods, Hand and Little Shield and even the marshals, had all played a part in that change and he was suddenly very grateful to all of them. He had something to live for now, people to watch over and to love, and he wanted nothing more than to know them all better and to look at life differently than he had in the past. He had found two lawmen he trusted. He had a family to call his own and a woman he couldn't get enough of, and who cared for him in return. He had men who were now his brothers and a man and a woman who called him son.

He was almost asleep when he smelled the soft scent of lavender as Kenzie laid her hand on his chest and bent over to kiss him softly on the lips.

"You stayin'?" He murmured, barely opening his eyes.

"I'll go wherever you go," she whispered.

"Good to know, Sweetness. Good to know."

...

...

Epilogue

...

"You been mighty quiet, son," George said, as he rode up beside him and looked out over the slow moving herd of black cattle. "Thinkin' about Thurston again?"

"I wanna forget 'im, but can't seem to get 'im outa my head," Deeks replied.

"It's been a month, son," George said, sounding worried.

"I know how he felt out there...how terrified he was."

"But you kept goin'...kept on fightin' to live," George replied earnestly. "He didn't."

"Didn't think I'd ever say this, but I feel sorry for 'im...for what he went through," he confessed. "He was desperate...I know what that feels like."

"You sorry you didn't shoot him up there?"

"Maybe I wanted him to suffer like I did," Deeks replied. "To feel what it's like to have no hope."

"But you found something deep inside yourself that wouldn't let you give up," George said. "You walked through that fire, son, and came out stronger on the other side."

"Never thought about the knife," Deeks said. "Callen told me it looked like he just walked 'round and 'round Wheeler and musta sat by his body for a long while before..."

"It was his choice."

"Always thought he was a coward," Deeks said softly. "Not sure about that now. Takes guts to cut your own throat."

"You told me once he wanted you to yield," George said gently. "In the end, you didn't...he did."

Deeks nodded and watched George ride over to Josie and he looked for Kenzie, finding her near the front of the small herd, and she waved to him. She always seemed to keep watch over him as he did her and he never tired of finding her looking at him with those deep dark mysterious eyes.

They were almost there now and he could see the layers of smoke from the village drifting out over the meadow, and found he was anxious to walk among the Arapaho again. George had asked him what marriage gift he should give to Red Bird's family and this small herd of Angus was what he had suggested, knowing food was always scarce. He heard the whooping before he saw the hunters streak out of the village, but his eyes locked on the singular figure of Hand, his long hair flowing out behind him as he raced his black stallion ahead of the others. He had three eagle feathers jutting out from behind his head, and his buckskins were elaborately decorated with blue and yellow stars, a long breastplate of bone covering his chest. Deeks heard Kenzie gasp and he felt a bit jealous all of a sudden, but she turned and smiled excitedly at him as the herd began to run, and the Arapaho quickly surrounded them, taking down a few with bow and arrow for the feast to come.

"Crazy Bear," Hand shouted as he pulled his horse up in front of them. "White Eagle tell us you fall off horse again."

"He was shot," Josie said sharply and Hand stopped smiling to look curiously at her.

"You are White Eagle's néínoo...mother?" He asked.

"Name's Josie, Hand," George told him. "Best watch your manners around her."

"You are welcome here, néínoo," Hand said quite formally, looking rather shyly at her. "Grandfather offers you a lodge. Tipi will always be here for you and Talks-to-Horses."

"What about me?" Deeks asked with a grin. "I ain't alone no more. This is Kenzie."

"Why you walk with this ugly man?" Hand asked her with a broad smile. "He has no horses, just one old mare."

"I kinda like that old mare," she said. "And I'm kinda partial to his blue eyes."

"Arapaho women like to see him naked. He like it, too," Hand told her, grinning until Deeks charged Sheila at him.

Hand was too fast and turned his horse and whooped, racing back toward the village with Deeks on his tail. He found it hard to stay mad at the man and finally eased his mare down to a trot when he saw Joe walking toward him with Red Bird. She was dressed in an almost white buckskin dress with long fringe and tiny silver cones that jingled softly as she walked and Joe wore a heavily decorated golden buckskin shirt, his face one wide smile. Little Shield was scolding Hand when he jumped down to hug his brother, and saw the big Arapaho ride back out to escort George and Josie into camp. He was suddenly surrounded by a large group of men and women, all smiling and he got some hearty pats on the back and shoulders as a welcome back.

"The people thank you for the black cattle," Little Shield said as he laid a hand on his shoulder. "Good to have big feast after marriage ceremony."

"The people been pretty hungry," Joe said quietly.

Red Bird stayed quiet and became quite shy when George and Josie dismounted and came to greet Joe. He quietly introduced them to Red Bird and she was very respectful to Josie, but wouldn't look at George at all, which Deeks could tell confused him.

"It's their custom, Papa," Joe explained. "Unless you brought that horse I asked you to."

George nodded and untied the lead rope on the string of horses he'd brought as gifts.

"Red Bird, this little filly is for you," he said softly as he led over a red and white pinto with a bald face and one blue eye.

"This is good gift, Bear," Hand said behind him as he watched the girl's eyes light up. "Now Red Bird can talk with him."

Josie followed with a beautiful quilt she had been working on up until the day they started this journey. The red and white design was her own, the quilt covered with flying birds and garlands of leaves and flowers. She gave it to Red Bird and hugged her tightly while Little Shield's daughters surrounded them, jostling each other to see the quilt and admiring her workmanship.

"Chief Little Shield, this one's for you," George said as he untied a big speckled white and black Appaloosa with a black mane and tail.

Deeks couldn't remember ever seeing Little Shield smile, but he was making up for it now, speaking softly in Arapaho to the animal as he ran his hands over the neck and shoulder of the big stallion. Josie broke away from the group of women and came up to Hand, reaching up to pat his cheek and Deeks swore the big man blushed.

"Beecét...you fought to save both my sons and George and I will never forget that," Josie said, hugging the surprised Arapaho, who for once couldn't think of a thing to say.

"We want you to have one of our best broodmares. She'll give you plenty of horses so you can marry. It's about time a good lookin' man like you found a wife," Josie said, making everyone laugh when Little Shield told them what she'd said.

The emotion on the big Arapaho's face surprised him as he took the rope from Josie's hand, and Deeks turned to Little Shield, whose expression had softened.

"His mother die when he was young boy," the old man said. "Joe is brother now like you, so his mother is now Beecét's mother."

"Hope he likes hugs," Deeks laughed, but knew just how the big Arapaho felt.

The soft pounding of drums began and Little Shield began a lilting chant, while others shook rattles and his daughters pressed a variety of gifts into Josie and George's hands. Joe and Red Bird were led to a large painted tipi, and several of the elders spoke, the last being Little Shield. He spoke to Joe and then to Red Bird and then he prayed to all four directions, all in Arapaho, but none of them needed to understand the words because Joe looked so happy.

"White Eagle and Red Bird married now," Little Shield finally announced in English and that was the end of it.

More gifts were given and soon the smell of roasting beef wafted over the little encampment, and the people gathered around the fires to share stories and enjoy the feast. Deeks was touched by how simple it all had been, standing apart and watching. He had been alone for a long time until he'd stumbled on Hand tied up to that tree. The encounter had changed his life, and he had become part of two much different families and today they had become one and he was proud to call it his own.

"Never seen you smile this much," Kenzie said as she came up to stand beside him, running her hand up under the new buckskin jacket Hand had given him.

"This makes me happy," he replied, pulling her around to face him. "You make me happy and that's somethin' I never ever want to end."

"Don't plan on goin' anywhere unless you do," she said before he silenced her with a kiss.

"Just back to the ranch with one little detour," he said. "Go with me?"

"Anywhere and always," she whispered. "Gonna tell me where?"

"Need to see a man about a wolf."

"I got a feeling our life together is gonna be anything but ordinary."

...

...

The end

Thanks to everyone who followed this journey back in time. I appreciated all of your comments and insights and especially your encouragement.

Until next time,

Sweet Lu


End file.
